


The Good Counselor

by KataChthonia



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Hellenistic Religion & Lore
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-10-07 17:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17370014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KataChthonia/pseuds/KataChthonia
Summary: Book Three in the Hades and Persephone series. Seventy years have passed since Elysion was created, and Persephone's efforts to conceive a child with Hades have been in vain.  But a secret rite on Samothrace might bend the Fates and give her all that they have dreamed of, or pave a path of untold suffering.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the free preview of The Good Counselor, Book Three in the Hades and Persephone series, and the sequel to Receiver of Many and Destroyer of Light.
> 
> Free previews published weekly every Wednesday night at Midnight, Pacific Standard Time.

"He won't be long," she said, pausing at the door.

Persephone grasped the handle and the aged hinges creaked when she opened it. Warmth and incense, the scents of mint and parsley, flooded from the other side. She stood in the door frame, and many pairs of tear-streaked eyes met hers.

"My lady," a frail voice said from the bed that dominated the center of the room.

"Hello, old friend," she smiled.

"Gods, it's good to see you again."

"And you as well."

"To think… I am only a child compared to you… a mote of dust, Soteira, yet I grow old while you stay evergreen, no?" He chuckled around the rattle in his throat and managed a smile for her.

"You mean more to me than you give yourself credit."

The venerable priest squinted at her, and his forehead wrinkled with worry. "My lady, it is two days past. Shouldn't you be with your honored husband by now?"

"He understands, Eumolpus," she said, shutting the door and walking to the bed. His students and family cleared a path for her and Persephone sat beside him, stroking thin wisps of white hair away from his liver spotted forehead. "This time you're coming home with us."

"I will only be another shade in Asphodel…"

"No," she soothed. "You're going to Elysion."

"I do not deserve it, my lady."

"Of course you do. With how good you are, with all you've done…"

"I served you for seventy years and more. But my youth was not so piously spent. No, not so." He frowned, every breath harder to draw. "I whipped my servants," he blurted. "When I was seventeen I plied an unwilling girl with drink until she lay with me, I forgot sacrifices to the gods and—"

"We are, all of us, the sum of our parts, good and bad," a baritone voice said from the back corner of the room. He removed his helm, becoming visible to all within. Hades watched twenty pairs of eyes widen, then avert. The dark robed mortals knelt and bowed to him, some trembling in fear. Eumolpus's eyes widened and he stretched a knobby hand out to his lord.

"Eubouleus," he whispered, using one of Aidoneus's many epithets.

"Be unafraid," Persephone said to the cowering Eleusinians. "Plouton is here as a friend."

They knew Persephone well, many since birth, but even members of her priesthood were wary of the Unseen One. They gave him a wide berth, crowding to the far side of the bed when he strode across the room to join his wife. Aidoneus managed a thin smile. "My queen speaks the truth. Do you suppose anyone who goes to the Elysian Fields is as pure as snow?"

He smiled and coughed again. "Of course not, my lord."

"Then how do you suppose I would welcome a mortal who has done more for my wife, more for all of Chthonia, in his short life than anyone who has lived before or since?"

A smile spread across the old priest's face and his breathing gentled.

"We have a question for you, Eumolpus," Persephone said, blotting sweat from his forehead with the corner of her shawl.

"I might have an answer," he smiled. Though his eyes were dulled by cataracts, Persephone saw the same sparkle in them from long ago.

She looked to Aidon, who carefully removed a gold foil scroll from his robes. Persephone took it from him, unrolled it and held it out for Eumolpus. "Charon has been finding these in the mouths of the dead. Do you know who would do such a thing? I've never seen their like in Eleusis."

The dying man nodded, squinting at the text. Eumolpus turned to his youngest son. "Keryx, will you read this for me?"

A gray haired man took the scroll and unrolled it. "It's written in Thracian."

Eumolpus closed his eyes and shook his head.

"…But on the other side, from the lake of Mnemosyne, you will find water flowing fresh. Say: 'I am the son of Earth and starry Heaven, but my parentage is heavenly: know this you too. I am dry with thirst and dying. Give me quickly then water from that which flows fresh from the lake of Mnemosyne'." Keryx looked at his father, confused.

The old priest merely nodded. "I know who writes these. He was my student several years back, practically a boy. The son of a Muse no less; rumor is that Apollon is his father. Came to Eleusis intrigued by the idea of rebirth, then left for the temple on Samothrace. He had his own ideas about what greets those who journey across the Styx."

"Should we be concerned?" Aidon asked.

Eumolpus shook his head and coughed violently. "No… no. His heart is in the right place. But I believe you should seek him out, regardless."

"Why?" Persephone asked.

Eumolpus breathed in again, the rattle in his throat growing louder. He waved toward the door. "All of you out," he commanded, then raised his palm before anyone could protest. "Every soul in this room knows as well as I that death is not the end. I will see each of you again in Elysion. Keryx, you stay."

They filed out quickly, his eldest granddaughter weeping as others ushered her from the chamber. The door shut behind them.

"My lady," he said with a smile. "I know you have long desired a child."

Persephone leaned in. "Yes…"

"The one who wrote that… he is gifted. With his lineage, his intelligence… it's quite possible. There are rites that his order oversees—"

"Eumolpus," Aidoneus stopped him quietly. "My wife and I have tried… many methods already. Spells, rituals, traveling throughout the known world…"

"Aidon…"

"Persephone, no. Sweet one, we suffer through this once a decade, to no avail. I won't let your hopes be crushed yet again."

"My lord, please," Eumolpus strained. "It is a fertility rite, yes, but the Samothracians invoke one who is not yet born. An heir to the earth and heavens— a god of life, death and rebirth."

Hades and Persephone exchanged a long glance.

"It requires sacrifice. A king and his barren queen have already—"

He was cut off by another round of coughing, so violent it bowed his back. His breathing became labored. Persephone looked up at her husband, her eyes pleading.

Aidoneus sighed. "What sort of sacrifice?"

"I know not. But it must encompass…" He took one gasping breath, feeling lighter, euphoric. "…what you are… your most heartfelt desire…"

"What is the man's name?"

Eumolpus saw the lamplight around him glow more brightly, the incense thicker, like fog, obscuring his last vision. He could feel warmth, like sunlight, and heard the laughter of childhood friends. He closed his eyes, exhaling a last word. "…Orpheus."


	2. Chapter 1

The water was calm, clear and infused with the scent of ash. He knelt down and washed his arms, his legs and torso. It was cold and purifying. He rubbed olive oil across his skin, banishing all  _ miasma _ from his person.

Orpheus scraped the excess oil off with a metal  _ strigil _ and dried himself in the sunlight, tussling his short brown hair to shake out the water. He donned his tunic and himation, both unadorned and undyed.

He closed his eyes, trying to escape the distraction of his surroundings, listening. A songbird in the oak tree warbled its tune and he hummed along with it. A song to the Seasons had overtaken his thoughts for the last several days, but still the tune for the heart of the hymn eluded him. He had no instrument to produce a harmony— none, at least, that could do the immortals justice. He borrowed the bird’s notes, slowing them to match the words. “At play you are companions,” he sang softly.

“At play you are companions,” he muttered, repeating the line a few more times, smoothing out the melody while he paced. Orpheus stopped and sang it once again, a little more boldly, then raised the songbird’s tune by five tonic notes, “of holy Persephone, when the Fates—”

He stopped, a shiver rushing over his skin. Had he called upon Karpophoros disrespectfully?  _ No _ , he thought. Ancient Eumolpus had told him that she was not offended by that name. And the priest knew her: he had  _ walked _ beside her in his youth and founded the Lower Mysteries with her.  _ Persephone’s  _ rites. Orpheus shrugged off his fears. He wouldn’t be bound by superstition.

He wondered after the old man, whether he was well. It had been years.

“And the Graces in circling dances, come forth to the light,” he sang, then stopped. He felt it again. He was being watched. Orpheus turned to where he felt the presence of...  _ something _ … a wild aurochs, a man? He sensed somehow that it was more than mortal, but satyrs and nymphs were a rare sight on Samothrace, and wouldn’t willingly approach a man.

Cold seeped into his skin again and a weight gathered in his chest. For all that he was attuned to his surroundings, it was unlike anything he’d experienced before. He wasn’t just being watched, but looked through, body and soul. The woods were silent, as though every creature knew to be still, and Orpheus wondered… He’d rid himself of  _ miasma _ . He’d called upon a goddess with his song. She was here; she must be. The lump in his throat, the cold, a sense of dread and the fleeting thought of asphodel flowers… He quickly dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Lady of the Flowers and Spring, Mistress of the Lands Beneath the Earth… If it is you… I am your humble servant.” 

“It is not she.”

He raised his head, his breath shallow. The voice was male— calm and measured, and its owner invisible to him. “I beg your pardon.”

“No need. I know her well.”

He swallowed. “You do…”

“Is she the one you serve, hymnist?”

He drew in a breath. “I serve all the gods, my lord.”

“That’s quite a task… To curry favor with  _ all _ the gods.”

“It isn’t  _ favor _ I seek. I honor them, from the least to the greatest, since they are the highest expression of  _ phanes _ , the light of life that dwells in all things. My only wish in this life is to displease none of them. For I might find myself parted from Elysion.”

“Ah,” said the voice. “You have gone through the Greater and Lesser Rites, no?”

“I have.”

“Who instructed you?”

“The great priest, Eumolpus.”

“I knew him,” said the voice, the tone changing.

“Knew?”

“Yes. He passed from this earth just before winter came. I was there when his family prepared him for the afterlife and took him to his mausoleum.”

“If I may be so bold to ask,” he said, fearing the answer, “who are you, my lord?”

“One who would not be known to you yet, hymnist.”

Orpheus bowed his head. “F-forgive my presumption.”

“Don’t fear me so. Stand, Orpheus.”

Orpheus cautiously rose, his knee damp from the mossy earth. “What shall I call you, my lord?”

The voice remained silent. But Orpheus could still feel his presence. He was thinking. He heard sandals pacing the ground, and if he listened closely enough, the rhythmic tap of a staff hitting the earth with every third step. “The God of Nysa.”

“Nysa…”

“You know of that place?”

“Only in legend. The fields and groves of the gods. The place where the Receiver of Many took Demeter’s Daughter from the sunlit world to be his Queen beneath the earth.”

“Indeed.”

He suspected enough from that, but wasn’t foolish enough to utter a name. This visitor had made his identity clear enough. Orpheus kept his eyes to the ground. “Then, God of Nysa, why, if I may I ask, did you seek  _ me _ out?”

“I’ve heard stories of a ceremony that takes place here, on Samothrace. One that invokes a god that is not yet born. One that you are familiar with.”

He nodded. “It… It hasn’t been performed in years.”

“A rare thing, then. When in the year?”

“When the first seeds sprout from the earth, midway between Spring and the Solstice. There are few who are truly prepared to give what it requires.”

“And what is that?”

“Something that represents what you are and will be.”

“I understand. Would anything I could offer aide you now?”

“Not for the rite.”

“But you yearn for something nonetheless. Something only one of my kind can procure for you.”

“I live by  _ ananke _ . My life is in the hands of the Moirai alone, so my desires are irrelevant.”

“You are the son of Apollo.”

“So my mother said…”

“She was right. You are not immortal yourself then,  _ hemitheoi _ . Yet you abide by the laws which govern the deathless ones?”

“Aren’t we, all the manifestations of  _ phanes _ , from the eldest Protogenoi to the lowliest mortal, bound by the will of the Fates?” He swore that he could sense the god smiling. He held his breath, unsure of what to make of the long pause.

“Perhaps.”

Orpheus stood still, and felt himself being gazed upon, a pull at his chest and behind his eyes, as though his thoughts and his heart were being weighed and measured and that nothing could be hidden. He heard footfalls.

“You sing. You honor the immortals with song.”

“Yes.”

“But all of them? Surely your work cannot be completed in your lifetime. There are too many of us.”

“I can try.”

“There is one thing that would help…”

“Gifts like that… come with a heavy price.”

“They do,” the voice said. Orpheus felt the same heavy pull, his very thoughts sifted and gleaned. “But you need a lyre, crafted by the gods, if all your works are to be finished in your lifetime. You desire to bring forth the songs from your heart, and it frustrates you to no end— because for now, they are trapped there. You wish to finish your earthly task, do you not?”

“I cannot ask for such a thing from… one I do not know.”

“Would you rather your life’s work go unfinished? Or that someone else completes it?”

“No.”

“I am willing to consider it your price.”

“For what?”

“For not revealing to your fellow priests or anyone involved in this… rite… that the ones who wish to participate in it are deathless.”

Orpheus said nothing.

“I know you despise lying, Orpheus. I can see it in your heart. I know what I ask for. But it is of great importance that this be only known to you. I would not ask you to betray your own  _ ethos _ if it were not so very important.”

“Why seek me out? Is what I have to offer so extraordinary?”

“The god you call upon— the one not yet born…” Orpheus could feel the full weight of the god’s gaze upon him. “Name him.”

His heart beat out of his chest. “The Unborn One’s name is only uttered in absolute secrecy and sanctity. My order does not sully it with human speech.”

“ _ Name him _ ,” came the voice in a hoarse whisper. 

Orpheus spoke just as low. “Zagreus.”

The god paused again and Orpheus wondered if he had angered him. But he could feel the enveloping coldness grow warmer, could feel a brief flicker of relief and… hope. Happiness, even. Through the wash of emotion, the voice remained staid. “What if I told you that your Zagreus could be conceived by these very rites? That is, if she and I were allowed to attend… unfettered by human fears and superstitions.”

“I would have no choice but to believe you, my lord.”

“Then you understand the reason for my surreptitiousness.”

He shuddered and nodded in acknowledgement. Now he was certain he knew who spoke to him. “My lord, can I think on it?”

“Of course. You have until the first moon of winter. I will return then.”

“When you return, how will I know it is you if I don’t even know your true name?”

“Because at that time, I will reveal  _ how _ I know you, how  _ you _ came to my attention, and when I do so, you will know precisely who I am.”

The presence lifted. As Orpheus looked up and puzzled over the god’s words, the birds started to sing again, the beetles hummed in the humid air. Everywhere he turned, narcissus bloomed in the shade of the trees.


	3. Chapter 2

Thesprotia was warm, even in the early evening. But that warmth didn’t penetrate the caves near the river. Here the chill of winter still clung to the rocks like moss.

In the palm of one hand, Persephone held an herb rooted in loose soil; her other hand trailed along the cool stones and damp roots of the cave walls. She followed the bend of the cave, the echo of a single drum’s steady tattoo joined by a lone piper's melody . A light flickered from the entrance of a great hall, and the smells of burning pitch and roasted venison wafted from within. Neither scent masked the stink of sex and sour wine. The tittering of dryads and naiads mixed with the braying laughter of satyrs, the pervasive chattering punctuated now and again by loud moans. The court was smaller than it once had been, so many years ago when mortal men and women had made the mistake of trusting its king— when Minthe had made the mistake of trusting her own father.

She reached the door, and the drum stopped, the pipes faltering a moment later, their last notes shrill. Whispers, then silence. Then the shifting and uncoupling of half clothed bodies, and knees dropping to the floor. Persephone didn’t look at the heads bowed to her, her gaze fixed on the dais at the rear of the hall. Her bare feet padded against the tile as she approached. “Kokytos.”

The king descended the dais and bowed low to her before resuming his place on his throne. “Well! An unexpected pleasure, Queen Persephone. When I heard you had been seen about Thesprotia I’d hoped that our paths might cross. Delightful to finally—”

“Leave us.” Persephone said.

With the barest murmur, Kokytos’s court, his musicians, and his servants gathered their instruments, their clothes, and cups. Most shuffled out of the hall; some disappeared in flashes of green— high order nymphs vanishing into the ether— until only the river god and the Queen of the Underworld remained.

Kokytos spied the bright green sprig in her hand. “So it’s true then? What Minthe did?”

“It is. Though not all of what they say.”

“Well, you can’t believe everything that gods and humans say. Gossips, to the last. Everyone worth knowing knows that Aidoneus is faithful to fault. And my sympathies for what befell you and your lord husband at her hand.”

“I was expecting something more akin to an apology. Not sympathy.”

Kokytos scoffed. “I had no part in what Minthe did. She brought her schemes with her, whispered in her ear by your illustrious mother, obviously.”

“Did she?”

“I took her in. That was all.”

“You let the men of your court violate her. They warped her, twisted her mind.”

He held up his hands. “Nothing she didn’t agree to. She knew the price of staying.”

“Your own daughter…”

Kokytos rolled his eyes. “One of many. If she  _ was _ mine at—”

“She was,” said Persephone. “I know all souls, living and dead, just as my husband does.”

He shifted in his chair.

“You have much to answer for.”

Kokytos threw up his hands. “So I whored my daughter! What of it? Are you going to condemn the father of every  _ hetera _ in Hellas along with me? Who’s next?”

“No.” Persephone said, with a soft smile. “She is the means by which you and I are unfortunately acquainted, but Minthe is not the reason I am here.”

“Then  _ what _ ?”

“There were human guests in your hall nearly fourscore winters ago…”

Kokytos paled.

“During the Great Famine. Do you remember them?”

“Humans— once, per-perhaps, long ago? H-how could I possibly recall? Decades have passed. And so have they, most likely.”

“Indeed they have. To the last soul.” She took a step forward. “You murdered them. You dined on their flesh. Your servants and guests feasted on them at your behest.”

His voice cracked dry as he choked out a laugh. “What nonsense… who in the world would tell you such a story?”

“The men and women you killed, Kokytos.”

His face fell.

“It took years for me to find them all in Asphodel. Decades, even. At first, there were rumors, nymphs who whispered to other nymphs, until those rumors reached my ears. I, too, doubted their awful tales. But the dead cannot lie.”

“My Queen, please… you know better than anyone that food was dwindling. Those mortals would have died anyway. I would have faced revolt from my men once my stores ran out… My court—” Kokytos coughed, and pulled at his mouth. He withdrew a mint leaf.

“Kokytos, son of Okeanos…”

“I am one of the ageless! Mortals are livestock. Flecks of dust! Only  _ they _ need live by your father’s petty laws. I am your husband’s vassal! You cannot cond—” He spat out another mint leaf.

Kokytos choked around a sprig of mint clawing at his throat. He yanked it free, then stared at his hands, mint blooming from under his fingernails, the roots twisting through his veins. He stood with a shriek, his throne tipping backwards. Kokytos beat at his arms as though they were aflame, tearing leaves and buds from his skin, but the more he raked from his flesh the more grew in its place.

“Abandon all hope, Kokytos.” He fell and tumbled down the stairs of his dais, his cries choked and muffled, and crashed to the floor of the cavern. Kokytos writhed, flailing as fresh clumps of mint sprung from his mouth, his nostrils, his eyes. “For your part in the murders of your guests and the consumption of mortal flesh you are condemned— not to Tartarus, but to oblivion.” The screams were buried under a wellspring of green along with his twisted features. Mint burst through the fabric of his robes, the still limbs beneath a tangle of roots and soil. Roots wound about his fallen crown. “So say I, Persephone Praxidike Chthonios, Queen of the Underworld, Carrier of Curses cast on those who live, by the dead whom they harmed in life.”

Kokytos’s outline was indistinguishable. Only a sprawling patch of mint remained, pungent leaves overpowering the lingering headiness of the orgy that had raged in the hall only minutes before. Mint crept between the mosaic tiles as Persephone left the chamber, the single sprout still resting in her left hand. Persephone curled the fingers of her right hand into a fist as she walked out the tunnel. Rocks tumbled from the ceiling and dust billowed behind her.

She didn’t travel through the ether. She owed Minthe the walk to the poplar grove where her mother’s tree stood. Mud caked her bare heels. Her green peplos swished in the breeze and she sheltered the mint plant in her hand. The soil in her palm was warm.

“I forgive you,” she whispered to the sprig as she walked. “I hope that you can forgive me, wherever you are.”

The grove loomed ahead, and she slowed her pace, listening to the songbirds and crows. She reached a tree at its center, with great branches towering overhead. This tree had been here far longer than the others, and it didn’t sway in the wind the way the rest did..

“Leuce?” She stared up at the branches. “I come to return your daughter, and to atone.”

Persephone knelt and scooped aside some of the loam near a broad root, and dug into the earth. She gently planted the cupped handful of soil and mint next to the outstretched base of the poplar. The tiny sprig leaned against the tree in a spot of sunlight. As she stood again, she spoke to the outstretched branches above. “Please forgive me. Forgive my husband. Forgive my mother, and Hecate. That’s all I ask.”

*      *      *

* * *

*      *      *

Hera sprawled inelegantly on Hestia’s divan, her fingers plaited under her chin. She drew in a long breath, then sighed dramatically. “Why must I entertain that sea witch  _ again _ ?”

Hestia tittered and shook her head, then ladled a boiling cup of water from the cast iron pot sitting on the hearth, carefully weighing and swishing it until it stopped bubbling. “Oh, come now. She isn’t all bad.”

“Isn’t she though? All she talks about is the strumpets that she drags to her marriage bed. If I have to hear her extol their  _ bedsharing _ one more time _ — _ ” Hera’s face had grown flushed. “Fates preserve me. She’s worse than that eastern  _ whore _ who wormed her way into my son’s heart.”

“Than Aphrodite? Surely not,” Hestia laughed. She shook her head, then emptied the ladle over a mix of ambrosia, sideritis, sage, and a bit of hemp flower. “Here. Calm yourself.”

Hera held the clay cup to her face and inhaled deeply. She closed her malachite dusted eyelids and every thought of Amphitrite evaporated. There were only the licking flames of Hestia’s hearth, the shadows dancing on the multitude of carefully arranged alabastron jars on the shelves, and her white-veiled sister tending to the flames. She took a sip of the tisane, and gone was the fury that still brewed over Zeus’s latest conquest, a dark-eyed Theban princess. Here, that harlot didn’t exist. Olympus itself could crumble to its foundations, and she wouldn’t care a whit. “How do you always know the best remedy for my mood?”

“Aeons of practice, dear sister.” Hestia smiled warmly.

Hera sipped. “It doesn’t get dull? Tending to the fire day after day?”

“I prefer it,” Hestia said, pouring herself a cup. “The quiet of the hearth suits me. The mortals offer me the first and last herb and drink of every meal, and I am free to peruse and take what I like. And roam further afield without a man’s permission.” She sipped from her cup, her gaze resting on a jar containing her latest acquisition— a sweet spice from the islands beyond the Valley of the Indus that curled up like a scroll and didn’t resemble any leaf or seed known.

“You could have been a queen, Hestia.”

“I could have. But the intrigue and theatrics of court are not for me. And wedding Poseidon… living at the bottom of the sea would be intolerable. Better he has that  _ sea witch _ , as you call her, by his side.”

Hera nodded. Her sister had always been drawn to warmth. The ocean would have chilled and rotted everything that made Hestia content. She wondered what life might have been like had she too had decided to take the path of a perpetual virgin. A visit from Zeus, disguised as an injured bird, had ended that possibility…

“Why is Zeus summoning Poseidon to meet in private?” Hestia asked idly.

“He demands another needless report on Ilion’s wall; what else? Fates have mercy, it’s been millennia—  _ aeons _ — and  _ still _ my lord husband cannot let bygones be bygones with that man.”

“You know how he loves to stay on top,” Hestia replied. Hera looked over her cup and cocked an eyebrow. Hestia continued without noticing. “Surely he worries that letting them be bygones might precipitate another rebellion.”

“Of course he does.” Hera rolled her eyes. “It feels strange to even say these words, but I wish Zeus and Poseidon could be more like Hades.”

Hestia sputtered, nearly choking on her tea. “What?”

“He stays where he ought, and performs his duties with all the steadfast dullness we’ve come to expect of him. No scheming, no power games… Fates, he never showed his face until he came to claim his bride. He’s been so…” Hera scrunched her face thoughtfully. “Perfectly reasonable.”

“Reasonable? Hera, he plunged the world into famine and darkness over a girl. Courtly intrigues are tiresome, but never so disastrous as  _ that _ .” She spoke low, as though the words themselves were a grave curse. “This flame nearly went out.”

Hera scoffed. “That was all Demeter’s doing. Had she behaved like a proper mother, not a stalk of wheat would have withered. The Stygian betrothal had been in place since the war. It was  _ her  _ folly not allowing Persephone to marry the husband chosen for her. A  _ king _ no less…”

“Yes, perhaps if she’d considered what a fine queen her daughter would make. And what a faithful husband Hades would be.” Hestia set down her cup, her eyes sparkling. “You should send a summons.”

“Invite  _ Hades _ ?”

“No, not him… Zeus would feel upstaged. I mean Persephone.”

Hera ground her teeth. “Demeter’s bastard.”

“Did you hear about what she did to that girl who tried to—”

“Yes.” Hera said. “ _ I know _ . She scared my poor Hephaestus with her theatrics. Nevermind the spectacle she made of herself in Ephyra!”

Hestia winced.

_ Too sharp _ , she scolded herself. She set down the cup and stood, brushing her peplos back into place. Hera meandered through the chamber, eyeing the various herb filled pithos as she went, taking in each heady scent. She searched along the wall and found a familiar jar, then glanced at Hestia contritely. She was Queen of Heaven, but this was her sister’s domain.

Hestia nodded and Hera pulled an alabastron of rosewater from the shelf, flecking some into her tea, then rubbing the rest on her wrists.

“Perhaps inviting her would make your afternoon less of a chore.”

“What, tomorrow? To Olympus? She’s not one of us. She’s a byblow—”

“Perhaps not, but neither is Amphitrite an Olympian. Persephone is Queen of the Underworld, and equal in rank to Amphitrite.” Hestia smiled wistfully. “A meeting of queens…”

Hera sighed, but then narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “All I ever heard after the Pomegranate Agreement was Persephone this, Persephone that. Most, if not all of them falsehoods. What do you know of her?”

“Only a little. But you may have more in common with Persephone than you know. You could learn more of her; ask her about this Elysion that she and her lord husband have built. Perhaps you could even strengthen the bonds between the Lands Below and the Heavens.”

Hestia had struck upon something, Hera realized. The rulers of the dead had only grown in influence since their marriage. With Persephone as her friend, the two queens could easily overrule Amphitrite. And if Hera proved her worth in forming a powerful alliance with them, what would Zeus say then? 

“If I brought her into my circle, it would only strengthen us. And prove to  _ him  _ once and for all that I  _ can  _ make peace with his baseborn spawn.”

“You remember how he welcomed you back after… that ill-gotten plot with Apollo and Poseidon? It was a very long time before he strayed again”

“Sixscore years.” Hera allowed herself a smile of grim satisfaction. “The longest he’d been faithful since we were newly wed.” 

“Less time you have to spend chasing a wandering husband, then.” Hestia ladled another cup of water over her herbs. “Another thing I don’t mind missing out on.”

“Ha! I should be so lucky,” Hera said. “If all goes accordingly, that would mean Hades would be Zeus’s closest example of proper marriage.”

“And we do know how he likes to be on top.” This time, Hestia smirked.

“I know him. He’d try instead to best his brother at the game of fidelity… He’d lose, of course, at first, but that would make him far less brazen about his exploits. Cowed, even. And who knows? Perhaps chasing flesh would lose its lustre one day.” The Queen of Heaven set down her cup and stared at the flames. She laughed softly to herself as the solutions to Amphitrite, that Theban harlot, and any whores that would follow fell into her lap.

Hestia shrugged. “I leave the marital intrigue to you, dear sister. It will be a royal event. The first meeting of the Queens of all three realms.”

“My lord won’t like being upstaged.”

“Oh, don’t hold it in the symposium. Invite them to your villa. If Zeus protests, just remind him that your hospitality is long overdue.” Hestia’s serene face cracked into a sly smile. “And remember, your home is your domain. You would have the last word.”

“I’d hardly have to get his permission. In his mind, nothing would humiliate Poseidon more than coming second to a meeting of goddess queens.” Hera wrinkled her brow and grew solemn. “What if Persephone is more trouble than Amphitrite?”

“I shouldn’t think so. They say she is closer to your temperament. She’s a quiet but strong ruler. I’m sure she has just as low an opinion of Demeter as you, given their circumstances. And she’s practically a paragon of wifely virtue.”

“So I win her over, and the feared Praxidike becomes my loyal pet. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Perish the thought. Finish your tea, and then send her an invitation.”


	4. Chapter 3

The ether rushed around her in a twist of silver and crimson and she emerged in the great atrium of her villa in Thesprotia. It had been abandoned for generations when Persephone had found it, and was said to be filled with the ghosts of the extinguished House of Aeolus.

Persephone knew better.

If any spirits remained, she would have wrenched them from this world already. She herself had sentenced three of that wicked family to Tartarus,  Sisyphus chief among them.

Willows overhung the entire house, shielding it from the main road that led to the sea. It was modest, a short ways from the city of Cichyrus. A copse of bedraggled cypresses marked the path leading to the entrance, and thistles grew thick around the door. To the idly  passing eyes of the outside world, this place was as uninhabited as it was foreboding.

But inside, it was paradise. Roses climbed the walls of the atrium garden and crocus blanketed the floor, growing through every crack in its deteriorating mosaic. A pomegranate tree— planted by Aidoneus on his first visit to their home in the world above— grew in the very center, shading a large oak stump beneath it. It was here that she found him turning a fruit over in his palm. It hadn’t come from this tree— it was only starting to blossom. This fruit came from the lands below,  from their sacred grove at the entrance to Elysion. He set it down and stood.

Persephone picked up her skirts and rushed to him. He gripped her waist and she felt her feet tilt off the ground as he lifted her level with his face. Their lips met, and she sighed, melting into him. His joy and eagerness flooded into her, mellowed by tenderness and spiked with lust, warmed with relief.

And a metallic undertone of trepidation.

She eased back. “Is something troubling you?”

“No.  Not yet,” he said, setting her down. “Did you take care of it?”

“He’s gone. His court is dispersed, and Minthe is by her mother’s side.” He scowled at the mention of her name. Placing the remains of the annihilated nymph by her mother’s grave had been Persephone’s idea. Hades had been less forgiving when they’d discussed it. “How is everything back home?”

“Empty as ever when you aren’t there, sweet one. How was this year’s planting?”

“The same as ever.” She hooked her arm into his and leaned in as they walked the walled garden paths. She quivered at the contact. It had been two months since her fingers had been upon his skin. She could feel his pulse and the warmth of his flesh. He smelled of raw earth, of cypress, and the cool waters— everything she missed about Chthonia. The Underworld. Her true home. Persephone glanced up and caught  him chewing the inside of his lip. His mind was distant, but she knew he would eventually reveal where. She let him ruminate while she spoke. “A bit less grain to sow this year, though. She was so anxious last harvest, it affected everything.”

“Your mother needs to stop worrying after her paramour.”

“I’ve told her as much. But can you even call Triptolemus that anymore? They share the Telesterion, but more as friends than lovers. They haven’t shared a bed since—”

“I regret mentioning it,” he muttered hastily.

“Ah.” She fidgeted. “Hermes may have picked up Minoan.”

“What?”

“Unless  _ you _ told him that Bellerophon broke his family’s curse and was granted a place in Elysion.”

Aidoneus gritted his teeth. “Damn him and his meddling…”

“I knew it! I knew he was lying. He denied reading your last letter to me, but how else would he know?”

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“What if that’s not the extent of it? What if he tells them about this place?”

“He won’t. I made him swear on the Styx.”

Persephone turned to him. “If the mortals know that you— that we spend time here, there will be endless interruptions. They’ll stop sowing crops. Some will leave, and the rest will build a gaudy temple. And the favors and quests of the rustic gods and  _ hemitheoi _ —”

“They’ll do no such thing because Hermes will keep his mouth shut.”

“Will he?”

“He will. He takes Stygian oaths seriously.”

“How will we send letters and parcels to each other now?” A shiver rolled through her as he cupped her face with his hand.

“Perhaps I should hand-deliver them.” Aidon leaned down and gave her the lightest, slowest of kisses. His dark eyes locked onto hers as he pulled back. “Though there’s something else I’m intent on giving you presently.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She threw her arms around his neck and collided with him, kissing him gracelessly in return, their teeth clicking together. He chuckled low and traced her spine with his fingertips.

“Eager, are we?”

“Come,” Persephone whispered. “Let me show you what I’ve been up to this season.”

* * * * * *

* * *

 

* * * * * *

Aidoneus picked up the half pomegranate and followed her up the stairs. “A full season of sowing and still you found the time?”

“Barely enough. I vanished just after Thesmophoria to spend a few hours here alone, and I think Mother is starting to suspect—”

Aidon kissed away the name. The last person he wanted to think about right now was Demeter. He inhaled Persephone’s scent of roses and lilac, larkspur and irises. “This is my time with  _ you _ . And no one else. Not Hermes, not your mother…”

_ Not Orpheus? _ Her voice rang through his head.

Aidon stopped. Did she knew where he had been? That he had spoken to the hymnist?

“His name was in your mind. Were you thinking about what Eumolpus said? Do you think…”

“I don’t want you to be disappointed again, sweet one,” he interrupted sharply. “I can’t bear it. Not after last time.”

She nodded.

He needed to distract her, or his visit to Samothrace would come pouring out unbidden. And going further down that road would only raise her hopes fruitlessly. Especially if she knew he was motivated enough to speak to Orpheus himself. “I practiced a flower while I waited for you.”

Persephone smiled. “You did?”

Their  _ hieros gamos _ had not only created Elysion, but— to their mutual delight— had conferred upon each other some of their unique talents. Persephone had even called up iron from the earth seven winters ago. “Watch, sweet one.”

Aidoneus concentrated on the ground before him, and felt the beating warm life rush through him, from his feet upward. Each time he tried it he marveled. This must be what she had felt throughout her lifetime each time she created a new living thing. At first he’d worried that he would taint life itself if he tried to imitate her— that his efforts would result in a blight simply because of who he was. But they were the Gods of the Earth, he remembered, one and the same, infinitely bound and part of each other. He closed his eyes, feeling the telltale pulse in first his abdomen and rising through his chest as a bulb grew, opened, and split the ground. The stalk shot upright, bursting at the tip into a purple iris. He heard clapping and opened his eyes. Persephone exhaled softly, her hand gripping her hips. “My favorite part,” she said, “is feeling  _ it _ move through you.”

“‘It’?”

“The earth, everything I have ever called up in— it’s hard to give it a name. More of a feeling. But it moves so… differently through you.”

“And you can sense every bit of…  _ it _ .” He already knew the answer.

_ Of course I can _ , her voice rang, stronger this time. She turned and started strolling through the palace, showing him a centuries-old tapestry she’d found in the collapsed storage room, the vibrant ochres and deep blues sealed away and saved from the ravages of sun and wind. She picked up her skirts and climbed the stairs to the gynaikeion, giving him a glimpse of her ankles and mud stained feet. Aidon followed, listening to her describe how she’d made  it into a place fit for them to sleep, to make love…

“Aidon?”

He smiled. “I was distracted. Forgive me.”

She  bit coyly at her lip. “It’s similar, but just a single room. I thought black fleeces would work, but they’re hard to find in the world above. Used for sacrifices too often to…”

“To me.”

“So they seldom sell them to anyone but priests. It took me a bit of searching, but I eventually found what I needed.”

“How?”

“An  _ agora _ in Locri. They were guarded at first, especially since I’m a woman. But no one asked questions after the gold came out. I suppose it helps when your husband is the richest being in the cosmos,” she said. 

Aidon laughed. He looked up, and instead of the familiar dome patterned with stars, this flat ceiling was covered with tiny jasmine blooms— their growth carefully trained and arranged to reflect the summer sky. One vine wound toward the center, marking the tail of the Scorpion, and another the bow of the Lyre. 

The Lyre… had she chosen this grouping of stars for a reason? He pushed it from his wandering mind. Aidon wanted to peel Persephone’s clothes off and press skin to skin, to seat himself as deeply within her as he could. But he also wanted to give her due respect as she showed him the work she’d done  since they last met here. 

This, he realized, was why he was creating these nervous distractions. But her breath was hitching, and he could feel her skin warming and prickling every time she glanced at him, could feel the flutter in her abdomen as though it were his own, and hear the slight tremble in her voice. His wife was being coy. Stalling. She wanted him to make the first move, the first touch. He would torture her a moment longer. 

As Persephone drew closer to the fleece covered divan, his gaze rested on her hips, the pins that held her peplos taut over her skin, and the ornate girdle he had timidly left as a gift in her chamber on the fifth day he’d known her. How different it was now. Her back was turned. He plucked a seed from the pomegranate and held it under his tongue. He was as impatient for her touch as she was for his.

Aidoneus flicked his wrist, and  _ fibulae _ scattered to all corners of the room. The girdle fell muffled in the heap of fabric, and Persephone gave startled gasp. He chuckled, ambling toward her as the rest of the peplum slinked from her breasts, her only adornment the flowery crown she wore in the spring and summer. Her blue-grey eyes were wide with shock and her hands instinctively covered her breasts and mons. 

“It is good to know,” he said, stepping free of his own clothes, “that after all these years I can still surprise you.” 

“I-I…” The blush creeping up her neck told him all he needed to know.

One piece of cloth remained, the only one not held by pins. Aidon reached behind and untied his loincloth by hand and let it drop to the floor. He gripped the half pomegranate in one hand and lifted the crown from her head with the other, then casually tossed the woven flowers aside. Aidon could feel the heat of her even through the half a pace between them. Her heels and chin lifted up so she was level with him, her eyes were lidded and her lips neared his. She relished in his guttural groan as she brushed her hand up his hip, his stomach and chest. “You’ll have to put that down.”

“Oh, will I?” He smiled and lifted the ripe fruit between them.

“What else do you plan to do with it?” She took a step back.

“Kiss me, wife, and find out.”

The half smile he had missed so very much these last two months appeared on Persephone’s face and she closed the distance between them. Aidon sighed as his phallus pressed against her belly, as her breasts fit against his chest. He pulled her with his forearm at the small of her back, and snaked the free fingers of his other hand through her hair. Her lips quivered against his before he flicked his tongue against them, bidding them to open. When they did, he pushed the ripe pomegranate seed he’d hidden away past her lips, onto her tongue, and broke the kiss to watch her.

Persephone locked her eyes with his and rolled the seed around in her mouth until it burst. Her soft moan sent a jolt straight to his groin. She kissed him again and he could taste the juice on her tongue. She pulled at his lip and nipped at his jaw. “You’ll have to drop it at some point, husband.”

“Oh, I will. One seed at a time, sweet one.” He followed as she backed toward the divan. His cock pulsed hot between them, and her breath shuddered. He caught the scent of lilac. Her knee bumped the edge and with a light push, he sent her sprawling back onto the fleece, her hair a tangle underneath her. Aidon knelt beside her, drawing out her long auburn hair behind her, over the arm of the divan.

_ It’s sweet that you do that _ , her voice echoed in his mind.

_ It’s largely self interest _ , he responded, giving her a wolfish grin.  _ It’s made us stop before… at key moments, and you know how much I hate being interrupted. _ He breathed next to her ear. “And it gives me something to grasp when I want to look at your face…”

She writhed. “Aidon, come.”

“Not yet,” he said with a light kiss. “Not for a long spell, either.”

“It’s been too long, husband. Stop teasing me.”

“I won’t leave you unsatisfied…”

He knew what she meant. He wanted that connection as badly as she… the slow sinking of flesh into flesh, the movement and rapture of lovemaking, the afterglow in which they could hold each other, feel their racing hearts slow in unison, and just  _ be _ . But watching her twist with desire for him was intoxicating. Watching her lose control as she reached ecstasy, more so. They could wait.

He plucked another seed and held it high above her, then crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, sending a spray of dark juice across her pale breast and neck. Persephone let out a delighted squeal. He traced its path with his tongue, rasping at her nipple as he went. He burst another seed. And another, collecting every drop and sharing it with her in a kiss. Her amusement was quickly replaced with want, growing toward  frustration. She writhed under him and sucked in a breath. “Aidon…”

The sound of his name, and the breathy tone he’d heard only in dreams for aeons until he’d come to her, destroyed his resolve. 

He grasped the rough skin of the pomegranate and held it high before crushing it to pulp in his fist. He tossed the spent fruit aside. Juice trickled across her belly, pooling in her navel, running in rivulets across her waist and into the nest of curls between her thighs. It dripped from her skin onto the divan and the floor. He drank it from her flesh, too slowly to keep all of it from escaping. But that would just mean exploring more of her with his tongue.

The liquid looked so beautiful, struck such a contrast, that he drew his fingers through it and painted swirls across her hips, tendrils along the insides of her thighs,  spirals of translucent red up the peaks of her breasts. He drew another finger through dark pomegranate and traced the symbol of their realm— a circle where her ribs met, cushioned and held aloft above the concave of a crescent over her stomach, and a descending cross… the juncture at her navel and the tip of which he trailed down to the apex of her thighs, already warm and wet. He cupped his hand over her labia, resting a long finger along her seam. She closed her eyes, letting out a gasp. Aidon tasted Persephone’s parted lips, their tongues rolling together, her teeth tugging lightly when they ended their kiss. Her thighs squeezed around his hand, and he pressed a fingertip lightly to her bud, then quaked it against her. She grasped at his shoulder and moaned, her hand pawing haphazardly at his skin.

Aidoneus examined his handiwork, admiring Persephone and the juices he’d painted her with. The summer air made it shimmer as it dried and congealed. In his mind's eye, it started to look too much like blood. Dark  memories of a long ago war began to rise from the depths of his mind, memories that had no place where he knelt here with her.

He gripped her thighs firmly, her smooth, firm flesh rooting him in the moment. Aidoneus traced each swirl and dribble with his tongue, erasing every trail. He drew a languorous circle with his thumb around her clitoris and occupied his mouth with her breasts, her stomach, her navel. She jumped with a slight giggle when he slurped that last pool of pomegranate juice. He smirked at her, then brushed his lips along her skin and nipped at the gentle curve of her womb, before replacing fingertips with tongue and listening to her delighted cry, muffled once her thighs closed against his ears.

One knee rested on his shoulder, his forearm pinioning her to the fleece. His other hand gripped her slender ankle to keep her from rolling off the divan. Her fingers raked through his hair— pulling him closer, pushing him back, he could hardly tell— as he sampled juices far headier than anything a pomegranate could produce. In her he found sunlight and warmth, the earth, the grass, the fields of flowers, the sting of iron, and Phlegethon flames. She smelled— tasted— different when they were above ground.

She moved differently, came differently around him in the sunlit world. They had discovered that on their first summer visit, when he’d taken her to Nysa, making love to her in the very field where he’d snatched her from the earth. Aidon hissed at the memory and let go of her ankle to quickly squeeze the head of his cock. He sighed, the tension temporarily abated.

Her mewling, her writhing, all her sounds and scent and skin begged for him to fill her at last. Instead, he  quenched the empty ache within her with two long fingers, searching softly for the spot he knew would tip her over the edge.

Persephone sat upright, her nails digging into his scalp for purchase as she crested at last, her voice ringing his name in his ears. When she came back to earth, Persephone spoke, her words thick. “The fleece…”

“Easily cleansed…” Aidoneus looked up at her and caught a drop of pomegranate juice on his tongue as it rolled over her hip bone. “You’re right, though,” he whispered against her skin. He slid one hand under her shoulders and the other under her knees. “Best not get anything  _ else _ on it.”

She smiled weakly, still reeling. He didn’t take his eyes off her, not as he carried her to their bed, not as he settled her in the middle and lay astride her. Two months was too long. The period following her return to the world above was always fraught with duty and separation for both of them— hers as the humans planted their new crops, his as he harvested those who had passed during winter. Their palace, and especially their bed, was an empty shell without her. Persephone splayed her palms on his shoulder blades. “I love you.”

“And I you, sweet one,” he whispered into her ear, settling against her. He aligned himself to her, and with a long thrust, he was finally home.

* * * * * *

* * *

 

* * * * * *

_ Fates, will this ever end? _ He thought.

Hermes waited in the courtyard, trying desperately to drown out the sounds from the gynaikeion upstairs. He shook the bronze cup in his hand, slammed the  _ kyveia _ down onto the bench, and counted them up. 

Seventeen. A loss.

No wonder Hades and Persephone sought the privacy of this villa, he mused. In the sanctity of this house they made enough noise to wake the dead. He gathered up the six bones and shook them again.

Thirty-one with five on five. A resounding win.

Not that any lucky roll mattered in a solitaire game, but at least it was enough to distract his mind from the noises and deter any accompanying visuals. Visuals wrought from memory, like his ignominious introduction to Hades’s new wife in the sapphire lined grotto of the Palace when he accidentally— No, no; he wasn’t going to think on it. At all. He shook the cup.

Eleven. No pairs. Abysmal…

The rattling bones would also hopefully be enough to draw one of them out once they were finished. “Bag of bones…” Hermes chuckled to himself. Wasn’t that what Alekto jokingly called Aidoneus half the time? He heard a shout from upstairs. Not so much a shout as a roar of male satisfaction. 

He guffawed quietly. Oh, to tell Apollo— or  _ anyone _ — about this secret dwelling place! But he knew he couldn’t. He’d sworn it on the Styx to Aidoneus that no one would know but him. And that he would only visit on matters of dire urgency. Silence filled the courtyard, punctuated by the buzz of grasshoppers and crickets. It would be quiet enough to hear the rattle of his  _ kyveia _ from the rooms above. Then, an awkward conversation, and he could be on his way.

Hermes pointedly shook the bronze cup several times and slammed it down on the stone. He heard a female yelp and a male curse, then the sounds of them fumbling about. Down the stairs came heavy footfall.

“Heh. Thirty six!” A shadow fell across Hermes’s perfect roll. 

Hades loomed large, hair hanging loose and bedraggled over pale folded arms, his black himation roughly wound around his waist and slung over his shoulder. He said nothing. Hermes swallowed and stood up, then bowed. He fumbled with the scroll, pulling it from its casing.

“Ah… I bear an urgent message for Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, from—”

The Lord of the Dead swiped the scroll from Hermes’ hands. Papyrus crinkled in his tightening fist.

“Before you tear it up or set it on fire, it’s from Hera.”

“I’ll see she gets it,” he said, teeth on edge, then spun around and marched toward the staircase. Without a backwards glance, Aidoneus spoke to Hermes in perfect Minoan. “ _ Stop reading my wife’s letters. _ ”


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Woohoo! The longest chapter to date! I hope you enjoyed it. I will be interviewed on a radio show called "Behind the Scenes" on Friday at 4:30pm PST if you want to tune in online. I'll be discussing The Good Counselor and turning my series into a TV show

“Ready?”

Persephone clicked her teeth together. “I suppose so.”

“She did this on purpose,” Athena said. “On the very day that  _ beast _ will be there…”

“You could avoid Poseidon, you know.” Her gateway through the ether twisted in a winding gyre of Phlegethon flame, and on the other side stood Olympus. “You don’t  _ have  _ to accompany me.”

“I know,” said Athena. “And I hope you don’t think that my ill temper is because of  you. But she told  _ me _ to bring you and what the Queen wants, the Queen gets. Father is always asking us to play nice with her. Much good it does any of us.”

They stepped through. Persephone’s first impression of Olympus had held true over the years. The garden was filled with perfectly manicured trees, shading plates of rich food from the perpetually bright sunshine. But the perfume of the vibrant flowerbeds was soured but the stink of unpicked rotting fruit, uneaten food, and spilled wine. Around every elegant bend was another display of intrigue, in each secluded bower more emotionless fornication. Deferential nymphs peered over cups of wine, gods and goddesses were swarmed by  their retinues, each coincidentally finding a reason to be there to catch a rare glimpse of the Queen of the Underworld. 

Persephone had returned only twice since her first visit: once at her husband’s side to announce the creation of  Elysion to Zeus and the _Dodekatheon_ , and again as a guest of Aphrodite. She wished for  an excuse not to come here, but everyone knew the sowing season had passed, and one didn’t just turn down an invitation from the Queen of Heaven. 

“You don’t have to go in,” Persephone said.

“Father wants me to.”

“Why?”

“Strategy. He went easy on me for my role in Poseidon and Apollo’s plotting. I was new to Olympus, then. He wants to make sure that his brother and I hate each other and never conspire again.”

“Given your history with Poseidon, I can’t see why he’d think that’s likely.” 

“His punishment for the rebellion has been meted out slowly. He’s been inflicting that  _ animal _ on me for aeons now” Athena rearranged her scowl into a smile as they passed through the hall, and she straightened her shoulders.

Poseidon stood before the throne, tattooed arms folded. He turned and spread them wide, his sea green eyes lighting up when he saw Persephone. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise!”

She’d only seen Poseidon once, and even then in the most formal of circumstances, at the court of the  _ Dodekatheon _ . Persephone started to bend her knee. 

“No, no, we’ll have none of that,” Zeus said, descending the step of the dais. “You’re Hades’s Queen. Not my vassal. Relax here, daughter. Hera is looking forward to meeting you.”

Poseidon cocked an eyebrow. “I was under the impression she and Amphitrite would be alone.”

“I am no tyrant over my wife’s hearth. She may invite who she likes. Besides: this is quite the occasion. The first meeting of the three goddess Queens. A momentous thing,” he said slapping Poseidon’s back. “Don’t you think, brother?”

Poseidon folded his arms, his shoulders tense. “Indeed.”

“Is Amphitrite here, your excellency?” Persephone said.

“My dear, you don’t need to call me that, and no,” he said, a smirk twisting up the corner of his mouth. “She’s hunting.”

“Not much untried quarry to be had here for  _ either _ of you, uncle,” Athena said, placing a protective hand on Persephone’s shoulder. “If memory serves.”

“We’ll see.” Poseidon replied. “If she’s unsuccessful here, I could always send her to  _ your _ temple.”

Athena took a step forward and Persephone could feel the heat rising from her skin.

“If memory serves, it hosts the sweetest prey of all.” Poseidon bared his teeth in a wide smile.

“Let’s not start this again in front of our dear guest,” Zeus said. “I want her to have a  _ good _ impression of you both.”

“Perhaps we should kiss and make up,” Poseidon took a step toward Athena.

“ _ That’s _ —”  Athena said, raising her voice. She took a quick breath and continued more calmly, “—quite unnecessary uncle. What are a few jokes among family?” 

Persephone stayed quiet. Athena curtsied and quickly strode from the room, hounded by Poseidon’s chuckles echoing through the marble halls. From the corner of the room came a glow of red and yellow, indigo and green.

A woman, kneeling low, shimmered as the light settled. She rose and faced Zeus. “Your grace, your illustrious wife sent me to escort her majesty Queen Persephone to her home.”

“Yes, yes, thank your Iris,” Zeus said, waving his hand. He turned to Persephone. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time. Sadly, I don’t think I will be free when you are finished. There’s much business that needs attending to.”

“Fates, I hope not…” Poseidon muttered. He gave Persephone a kindly smile and nodded to her.

She nodded to her father and Poseidon, then followed Iris out of the symposium. Persephone had only seen her from a distance as a child. The goddess-in-waiting to Hera had hair like a raven’s wing, tinged with every color of the rainbow, and her gown shifted color as she took Persephone through shadow and light in the marble halls and along the path to the Palace of Hera. The walk down the hill to Hera’s villa made Persephone uneasy. How odd that Hera kept a separate home, a separate bed from her husband, and situated below his place at the peak of Olympus. Just as her throne was steps below that of the King of the Gods. Hades’s Palace was Persephone’s palace, and Persephone’s bed was Hades’s bed. Olympus again proved itself a world apart. 

Like the other private palaces of the  _ Dodekatheon _ , the grand villa was newer than the old citadel of Olympus itself— the original home of Gaia and Ouranos. Its columns were painted marble statues of women, the heavy balustrade beneath the domed ceiling resting on their uplifted arms. 

“If you think this is impressive,” a voice beside her whispered, “you should see ours beneath the waves. And saffron is a good color on you. The daughters of the sea don’t wear that shade often. A pity.”

Persephone blinked, startled from her reverie. Her unexpected companion was a curvy woman with rich umber skin and blue coral and cowry shells woven through her tightly braided hair. A diadem of cross sectioned conch shells sat above her thin eyebrows. She was clothed strangely, like the paintings of the priestess queens on Old Crete. Her flounced skirt and tight fitting blouse were made of an embroidered linen as diaphanous as sea foam. “Am— are you Amphitrite?”

“The same. Though perhaps it’s not so grand. Poseidon and I have merely  _ one  _ bed to share, instead of two.  _ One  _ throne instead of a pretty chair three steps below the big one. The bed keeps him from straying too far if I’m there waiting every night, and sitting thigh to thigh keeps his eyes from wandering too far by day… ”

Persephone’s cheeks grew hot and she stared at Iris’s back, wondering how much Hera’s lady in waiting could hear. 

“You’re an earth goddess… wouldn’t you agree that the best way to keep a man from sowing his wild oats is to make sure that his grain silo is always empty?”

“I hadn’t heard that analogy before…”

“I hear you sit your  _ own _ throne in Chthonia, but Fates— tell me  _ you _ don’t sleep separately from Hades,” Amphitrite said, louder than was necessary for Persephone to hear her. 

“Ah, no, our room is… we definitely— well, I suppose, for six months of the year…”

The sea goddess laughed and threw an arm around Persephone. “Don’t be so nervous up here. They’ll eat you alive. And  _ she _ will think you’re as much of a prig as she is.”

Persephone’s jaw fell slack and she stared at Amphitrite.

She bit her full lip and chortled. “I couldn’t care less what the rainbow girl hears.”

Iris’s long peplos shifted from a sky blue to the violent gray green of a storm and she spun about. Her face was tight. She forced a smile and straightened her back, her dress lightening until at last it returned to a tranquil hue. She spoke to Persephone. “I shall introduce the consort of Poseidon first. You, as our  _ most _ honored guest, shall be introduced last.”

A delicate golden gate, it’s filigree mimicking swirls of clouds and the eyes of peacock feathers, swung wide and Iris walked through, followed by Amphitrite and Persephone.

Amphitrite turned her head.  _ You, as our most honored guest, shall be introduced last _ , she mouthed, exaggerating Iris’s mannerisms. She ended her impression with a spin and a courtly bow. Persephone stifled a laugh.

They passed between the statues who held the ceiling aloft. One looked a bit like her mother. A peahen shrieked and ran across their path, pursued by a peacock. Iris turned the corner and led them through a grand hall, similar to the symposium of Olympus, but with watery light dimmed by gauzy blue veils and green drapes. The columns inside were enormous and carved at the base with stylized lotuses. Soft divans were scattered in clumps here and there, covered in plush fleeces and rolled wool pillows. Frescos and tapestries featuring lionesses with their young, pomegranates, and the ubiquitous peacock feathers plastered the walls. Shafts of light penetrated here and there, giving the strange feeling of being submerged, but the color and softness was welcoming after the Symposium. A delicate, jeweled throne dominated the center of the room, empty. 

“Majestic Hera, most treasured daughter of Rhea, She of the Heights, Protector of Men, wife of Zeus Aegiduchos Cronides, and Queen of Heaven,” Iris said to the empty throne, “may I present Amphitrite Halocydne Nereida, Lady of the Sea, Goddess of the Encircling Third, consort of Poseidon, and may I introduce Persephone Karpophoros Chthonios, Goddess of Spring, Exacter of Justice, consort of Aidoneus, and Queen of the Underworld.”

As her titles were uttered, Persephone knelt to one knee, her head bowed. She pressed her right palm to the floor, just as her husband did when in the presence of Zeus, though she was uncertain to whom she was bowing. The throne before her was still empty. She kept her head lowered. 

Amphitrite had given a customary nod and curtsy, but stood tall. 

“We are all equals here. Please. Stand.”

Persephone rose and looked for the source of the voice. Beyond the throne, a blue veiled woman sat at a loom, her back to them as she wove a fine woolen thread through the taut strands. Iris bowed low once, backed toward the door, curtsied, and departed.

Hera stood and pushed her veil off her head. Beneath were dark locks held up by a simple green filet. Her features were sharp, yet warm, large brown eyes that reminded Persephone of Aidoneus, and a thin, serene smile. Malachite hung heavy on her lids, and kohl rimmed the edges, making them appear even larger. “Come. I thought tea would be in order. If memory serves, wine is not preferred in the lands below, so we shall abstain.”

Persephone felt tension leave her shoulders. “Tea would be fine, thank you.”

“It might be a bit tepid. They took it off Hestia’s hearth several minutes ago.”

Was she late?  _ No, three hours past midday was the appointed time _ , she thought.  _ Hestia _ … Persephone tried to remember. The second Child of Kronos. Hera’s closest friend, who had a vast collection of herbs and spices curated from all the plants of the world, some varieties lost for aeons. She cared for the plants, and tended to the hearth with which she cooked and warmed Olympus. And her gateway through the ether was the same as Persephone’s: fire. “Will she be joining us also?”

“No.”

She balked at Hera’s abruptness. But then the Goddess Queen smiled broadly, exposing perfectly white, if slightly large teeth. “I thought it should just be us today. The three of us have never really met.”

“A bit odd that you haven’t invited her here,” Amphitrite said, “since she has been Hades’s queen for nearly four score years. We all thought you were going to go the whole one hundred before holding court with her.”

Hera demurred. “Alas, we’ve been… preoccupied. Much has transpired in that time, no? And dear Amphitrite, how many times has Persephone been a guest at your palace?”

Persephone already felt like a country peasant here. Was she remiss in requesting an audience with Hera or paying fealty to the Queen? Had her oversight endangered the alliance between the Earth and the Heavens? Despite Hera’s tone of friendliness and informality, Persephone kept alert, knowing that every word she chose might be perilous.

“Speaking of, Persephone, I must apologize to you.” Hera moved closed to her, her eyes cast to the ground.

“For what?”

“When I sent you that pomegranate nectar…” She grasped Persephone’s hands, her fingers warm, and looked at her with pleading eyes. “I never intended for my wedding gift to aid your mother’s maidservant in causing so much trouble.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I assure you.”

“I understand you dealt with that wretch and your mother’s base behavior rather succinctly.”

_ Don’t ever show them weakness _ , Demeter had told her.  _ Let them believe what they must _ , her husband had said. Persephone straightened her back. “Yes. I did.”

“Ooh, there’s an idea, Hera.” Amphitrite giggled. “How do you suppose Zeus would react if you made his next dalliance burst into flames mid-stroke?”

“My ways are more subtle than that,” Hera shot back at her. “Thanks to her resourcefulness, Persephone’s husband was unharmed. And, if anything  _ had _ transpired, Aidoneus wasn’t himself. He had been poisoned by that whore, had he not?”

“With ergot,” Persephone said guardedly.

“Well, as I said.” Hera again cast her eyes to the ground. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Persephone, that you had to endure that.”

“In the grand scheme of things,” Persephone said with a strained smile, “nothing happened.”

Hera clapped once, and three lady’s maids dressed in identical sky blue peplum floated into the room, each bearing a steaming   _ kantharos _ . Hera took her place on a divan, and Persephone and Amphitrite flanked her on couches of their own. Persephone didn’t even get a chance to look into the eyes of the servant who bore the golden tray holding her tea: she was silently retreating as soon as Persephone’s cup left the platter. The tisane was pink, and smelled sweet and pungent. Persephone realized that it was rose and jasmine— an honorary nod to her role as the Goddess of Spring. She inhaled and smiled.

“Now, Hera usually punishes those women’s sons and daughters, rather… firmly,” Amphitrite said, “But  _ you _ … Is it true what I heard from Anauros of Thessaly about what you did to Kokytos, Minthe’s own father?”

“That was… an unrelated matter. He violated the rules of my husband’s kingdom and the dead cast many curses upon him for his wrongdoings. It was my duty to carry them out.”

Amphitrite laughed. “You sound like Aidoneus. So grave! He’s certainly wormed his way well into you, hasn’t he?”

Persephone blushed and looked away, sipping her tea. A burst of sweetness revealed that it was full of ambrosia. She shouldn’t be surprised. Ambrosia was in everything here.

“There’s no need for you to embarrass her,” Hera said under her breath.

“Please… we’re all wives, here. And if they’ve already had a  _ hieros gamos _ so impassioned that it created Elysion, a realm within their realm, I think that there’s little left to blush about.”

“Let  _ her _ be the arbiter of that,” Hera said, an edge creeping into her voice. She forced a smile and changed the subject. “I have not seen Elysion yet. Though I heard from my dear husband it is incomparably beautiful.”

“I think it is,” Persephone said. After they told Olympus of its existence, Zeus had made a rare descent into Chthonia to see the Elysian Fields himself. He had said almost nothing at the time, and had looked nervous.

“Tell us a little about it.” Amphitrite said. Both she and Hera leaned forward.

“There’s… the entrance is a grove of intertwined pomegranate trees within the palace garden. Well, it  _ was _ within our garden. We removed part of a wall and a path was laid out to guide the worthy souls to their new home. Once inside, Elysion appears… expansive. There are many trees, of all varieties, some from lands that we’ve only heard about, and beyond that is a sea, with green, hilly islands dotting the surface.”

“It must be vast,” Hera said, her brow knitting. “How large is Elysion?”

“We haven’t found its end yet.”

Hera’s eyes widened, then she quickly schooled her expression and took another sip. “How do you determine who enters?”

Persephone bit at her lip. “Aidoneus and I spent the better part of the last century combing Asphodel for the worthy shades. With some difficulty, we let them revisit their lost memories long enough to speak with us, and then either sent them back to the peaceful Fields, or rewarded them with Paradise.”

“That sounds exhausting,” said Amphitrite.

“Do you find these souls together during the winter, or does Aidoneus take it up when you are… with your mother?” Hera wrinkled her nose.

“I would not delay any of our— his subjects on my behalf. Aidoneus has ruled Chth— the Underworld for aeons. He is plenty able to search out the worthy shades without my assistance.”

“You have made a great change in him, I think. I didn’t take him for someone who is quite so compassionate. What of the recently departed?” Hera asked. “What must they do to gain entrance to Elysion?”

“Their soul must be prepared. Nothing more.”

“Ah, your _Eleusinian_ _Mysteries_.” Hera said, raising her eyebrows. She exhaled and turned to Amphitrite. “Any news from beneath the waves, Amphitrite?”

She smiled wide, her teeth showing brilliant white. “There is. I am expecting another child.”

“Oh, by Poseidon?” Hera said over the rim of her cup.

“Oh yes,” Amphitrite hissed at her. “And I would be happy to share every exquisite detail of how he—”

“Congratulations to you,” Persephone interrupted. She hadn’t come here for this. She could very well be with Aidon right now in the comfort of their villa in Thesprotia.

“Why thank you.” Amphitrite smiled at her, and then winked. She knew that Persephone was trying her utmost to keep the peace. She readied her arrows for Hera anyway. “Poseidon was… very eager for another son.”

“You know that it’s a boy?” Persephone said, putting her cup down.

“Why yes,” Amphitrite said. “ _ You _ know how these things are known.”

“I…”

“Your modesty is quite refreshing here, Persephone,” Hera chimed in.

“I beg pardon,” Persephone said, her eyes cast down on her cup. “But… I cannot claim modesty when I honestly do not know what either of you are talking about.”

Hera put down her cup and canted her head. “Oh dear, I’m sorry, I had completely forgotten you have no children. How careless of me.”

“Good! Then I’ll explain it to her.” Amphitrite stirred her tea. “After the deathless ones create a child, they can both … learn about it together. Its sex, what it might look like, sometimes its sigil for the ether…”

“How?”

“By the simple touch of both, upon the womb,” Hera said. 

Amphitrite smirked. “Poseidon likes to find out from inside—”

“Persephone is too much of a  _ lady _ to listen to any more of that.”

“And what sort of lady? The kind that sits beneath her lover like a concubine?”

“The sort who doesn’t speak like a concubine.”

“At least  _ she _ too is  _ her _ husband’s equal.”

“That is not the order of things,” Hera said quietly. “No matter how crookedly you’ve wound Poseidon around your finger.”

“Oh, you hadn’t heard? A little  _ nymphai _ reminded me that Queen Persephone sits as an equal to Aidoneus.” Amphitrite turned to her. “I know how Chthonia operates. You can tell her, Persephone. Maybe she’ll learn a little something and she can finally bring that insufferable man to heel.”

Persephone sat stock still. Amphitrite was correct, but there wasn’t any way she was going to say so. Persephone didn’t know how to play this game. Fates help her if she was foolish enough to side with either of them.

Hera swallowed a polite sip. “How very strange to hear you speak that way about your sworn king, my husband, when it is well known that Poseidon’s eye wanders far afield. And debasing yourself so shamelessly for his benefit has done you little good.”

“No, plenty of good, I assure you. It was during a very enjoyable ‘debasement’ that we conceived little Eurypylus.” She stroked her belly for effect. “And our bedmate Astypalaia was all too happy to participate.”

Hera sighed, and set her tea aside. She dropped her head into her hand and squeezed her temples. Persephone didn’t move.

“Poseidon  _ desperately _ wanted to bed that innocent princess, but knew I was between the tides. He started caressing her, then lowered his lips to hers, and she was so enrapt that Astypalaia didn’t even know I was in the room until I replaced Poseidon’s tongue with mine. And it turns out, Astypalaia was not so innocent as Poseidon imagined. To men, sure enough, but not to women. Trust me, the sights and sounds the two of us treated him to drained him of his seed rather quickly.”

Persephone felt the color seep from her face, and looked from Hera to Amphitrite and back.

Amphitrite snickered, then put her cup to the side before she doubled over. Her laugh echoed through the hall. “Alright, you win, Hera. I’ll stop embarrassing her. Gods… you refuse to let me have  _ any _ fun.”

Persephone relaxed, relieved but exhausted. Hera exhaled and rolled her eyes. “Well since that’s done…”

“I’m done, I’m done. I promise.” She leaned forward. “One last thing though…”

Hera looked skyward. “Amphitrite…”

“Tell me, Persephone… have you considered inviting one of those delicate winged nymphs from the Styx into your chamber? I would be fascinated to find out what they are like.”

“I have not. Nor will I.”

“Surely after all these decades, you’d want to liven things up for the King of the Dead?”

“Neither Aidoneus nor I have any interest but for each other. And it will remain so.”

Hera and Amphitrite looked at one another. Hera lowered her eyes to the floor, but Amphitrite smiled and held her belly, feeling her son turn. “It’s only been seventy five years, Persephone. You have an eternity to truly find the limits to your marriage. And likewise an eternity to try for children.”

Persephone scoffed. “Well rest assured, that despite Zeus’s oath to us, I doubt a child will be forthcoming.”

“Oath? What do you mean?” Hera said, her eyes trained on her tea.

“The Stygian oath he swore to us at the Pomegranate Agreement.”

“Don’t let him get to you.” Amphitrite said. “Hermes told us everything. Cruel and selfish to taunt your husband that way. Zeus only made that promise so that he could bring Aidoneus to heel. He does that to my husband constantly. Not by promising that our child will become the heir to the heavens, mind you, but he has other ways of needling Poseidon.”

“Thank you. As I said, it’s of nothing, and his words on that matter bear little consequence. Aidoneus and I could be content if it never happens at all.”

Amphitrite was silent a moment, then took Persephone’s hand and squeezed it in hers, and gave her a reassuring smile. “As I said, it’s only been seventy five years. Only the Fates know what the future will bring.”

Hera stared into her cup, her serene smile set in stone.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The long-awaited Hera/Zeus chapter!!
> 
> I know I took an absence last week and sadly that was unplanned due to illness. However, I do have to take another absence, this time planned, because I will be recovering from surgery. The next chapter debuts on MARCH 13 at the regular time.  
> Thank you so much for following The Good Counselor with as much fervor as you followed Receiver of Many when I initially posted it!
> 
> See you on the 13th.

Her chest heaved, her throat burned. But she refused to let tears fall. Hera wondered yet again, like so many other times in her long life, if this was the way mortals felt when their hearts broke and ceased to beat, and they passed from the living world.

Whores were one thing.  That impulse that came not from his heart, but from that other part between his legs that relentlessly craved the embrace of new flesh. It happened, it ended, and she had deadened herself to that hurt long, long ago. Love was different. After their nuptials, after their  _ hieros gamos _ , Hera had been blessed and cursed by their inextricable link. She could feel deep within her when he loved another. It was a pit in her heart— a hollow, like the well of the clay cup she gripped in her hand. The clay turned warm against her angry palm.

Tears fell onto its unvarnished surface.

This was betrayal more potent than anything she’d ever felt— more than even the early days, when he had deeply loved and lain with Leto and begat the twins on her. She had been furious, their marriage still so new and fragile, and his duplicity and denial so deep.

That hardly compared.

Everyone knew but her. Demeter; Hermes, who had told Poseidon, and likely others; and of course Apollo. How many had been laughing and pointing at her back all this time?

Zeus had promised Aidoneus and Persephone the only thing that should never,  _ could _ never, be given away: their children’s birthright. It was the lowest mockery of their marriage and the one untouchable truth that set her apart from all others— that her children were legitimate, and the rest of his spawn were bastards.

Did he not realize that by giving  them that, he was going back on his word  _ to her _ , and passing the line of succession through his first born? Through  _ Demeter’s _ child? Even if growing Hades’s seed was impossible, it was the gravity of such a thing. It was a Stygian oath made by the King of the Gods! Unbreakable, and beyond egregious, tempting the Fates into the unimaginable… 

Hera could feel Zeus drawing closer to the room and stood, her hands tensing around the cup, nearly cracking it. His sandals thudded against the marble floors. As his shadow appeared around the corner, she cocked her arm.

The cup exploded against the wall and Zeus ducked beyond the doorway.

“What in Tartarus was that for?!”

“How could you?”

“How could I…” He leaned around the corner, and entered the room once he saw that her hands were both empty. Hera balled her fists and stood tense, her shoulders tight. Zeus approached her,  and she trembled but didn’t move. He scratched the back of his neck and chuckled at her. “Woman, if you want to spend an evening with me, there’s better ways to get my attention. You needn’t—”

“I have half a mind to never lie with you again!”

“Be serious.”

“I am!”

“You’ve caught me on a night where I’m  _ alone _ for once; I’ve  _ said _ not a word I’ve  _ done  _ nothing to cause you to act out like this, so I’ll ask you again. What  _ daimones _ possessed you to throw that at me?”

“Persephone!”

“Truly? She never seemed fiendish to me. From what I heard, you were having a pleasant enough time with her and Amphitrite. You were the one who invited her, for Fate’s sake.” He sighed and folded his arms. “You didn’t let Poseidon's sea witch get under your skin again, did you?”

“Amphitrite is nothing! This is about what you promised Aidoneus the day the Pomegranate Agreement was struck!”

Zeus knit his brow, perplexed. Then it dawned on him. He lowered his arms  to his sides and took a step back. Hera watched him grit his teeth. He was painfully easy to read. That was the expression he’d made when she confronted him about Europa. And Danae.

“How could you make a promise like that?!”

“You trouble yourself over nothing, woman,” Zeus said, pacing about his room. “It will come to nothing.  _ They _ know that.  _ You _ know that. So why pester me?”

“You have no respect for me. It is not enough that you fornicate with every woman who crosses your path? Now you give away  _ my _ son’s birthright to another?”

Zeus laughed. “ _ What _ other?”

“To Persephone’s first child!”

“Ha!” He scoffed, loud enough for it to echo and her to flinch. “This is why I cannot take your mood to heart and you shouldn’t those words heart either.  I might as well have sworn to Poseidon that the seas would boil. Hades and Persephone will have no children.”

“Not Aidoneus, no, but—”

“And neither will she. Persephone sealed her fate when she ate those damned pomegranate seeds.”

“You don’t know that! She's the Goddess of  _ Spring _ .”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s part of the Land of the Dead. As much a  _ Chthonios _ as her husband, no matter how much time she spends in the sunlight. She is as barren as their Fates-forsaken kingdom.”

“Her fertility might overpower it.” She leveled an accusing finger. “And I think you  _ know  _ that.”

Zeus rolled his eyes. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“That you’ll try to beget on her as you did on her mother.”

He blinked hard, then looked nauseous, and Hera froze. She’d only seen him this unsettled one other time… but it had affected him. She silently congratulated him on mustering  a reaction stronger than lying or vague dismissal. Hera folded her arms and pressed on.

“Given your recent depravity I would not even put laying with your own daughter beneath you.”

“That is  _ enough _ !” He advanced on her, trapping her between his body and the bed at the back of her knees. She faltered. His eyes narrowed. “And even if she were  _ not _ my daughter... she looks too much like Rhea. Honestly, Hera. You wound me. Say what you will about the lovers I’ve taken, but for fatessake, my own  _ children _ … For shame, Hera.”

He backed away, his lip curled in disgust. She seethed. He was blaming  _ her _ . How many times had he always turned it back on her? “It didn't stop you from bedding Alcmene.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not this again. I told you, it’s  _ over _ between her and me. Her new husband was rutting in her well-traveled passage hardly a night after I rose from her.”

She stamped away from his bed. It was too dangerous to stay there. He’d cornered her during an argument there and ‘soothed’ her out of her protests too many times before. This was different. He had dishonored her. He had dishonored their  _ children _ . “I cannot believe that it falls to  _ me _ to know more about your harlots than you do.”

“What are you muttering about?”

“Alcmene is the daughter of Electryon. Who was the daughter of Perseus. Who was  _ your own son! _ ”

“Perseus…” He chewed his lip.

“Oh, Fates save me for having such a forgetful husband!”

“If  _ you _ would just let these pass, as I do, instead of holding on to your hate for  _ generations _ you might be happier, Hera.”

“He slew the sea monster. Cetus. Took that Ethiopian girl, Andromeda, to wife.”

He cocked his head to the side and smirked in the unnerving way he always would when he found her anger amusing. She wanted to cry, or flail her fists against his chest. If she did it would give him an opportunity to comfort her. Or draw her close. All roads lead to his polluted bed. She stood her ground. 

“His mother was Danae. Who you… appeared to… as a golden rain.”

“Ah! Now I remember!” His voice lightened, taunting her. “Her miserable father had locked her away. Trying to defy the Oracle, for fear that her offspring would kill him. And as luck would have it, Perseus did! Accidentally, mind you, but…” He guffawed.

“And so you sleep with your own great-granddaughter.”

“Please…”

“She has your blood running through her!”

“So does nearly every noble family in Hellas,” he chided. “And I’ve bedded half of  _ them _ .”

“So does Persephone. Will you bed her too?!”

He lunged at her and she tried to twist away. Hera shrieked. Her wrists were trapped in his hands and her struggling only brought her closer against his chest. “Let me go!”

His breath teased the stray hairs on her forehead. “Listen to me.”

“No!”

“Hera,” he said, his voice soothing. “Hera, they cannot have children. Look at me.”

She kept her gaze firmly on his chest, not wanting him to see her crying.

“Wife,  _ gynaika mou _ , look at me.”

She sniffled, and brought her deep brown eyes up to meet his sky blue. He let go of one wrist, and brushed a tear away from her face.

“I would never,  _ ever _ , betray you like that. Persephone and Hades cannot have children. I said it to taunt him that day because of all the destruction and waste his selfish infatuation with her had caused. It was meant to put him in his place and drive a wedge between them. Nothing more.”

“What…” she swallowed, trying to keep from leaning into the fingers stroking her cheek. Her voice wavered. “What if they do conceive?”

“They won’t. I hear tell they’ve tried just about anything. So my empty oath to him did all it was supposed to do. It put Hades in his place. It will eventually drive them apart because Persephone, though she ate the seeds willingly, would never have done so if she’d known it would condemn her to an eternally barren marriage bed. In that way, he  _ did _ trick her, as the mortals say. Even if there were a way they could, even if they found some dark sorcery that could give them a child, I would never make a spawn of theirs heir to Olympus.  _ Never _ . Besides… if such a creature were even possible, it would be rooted to the Underworld the same as its dismal parents.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, Hera.” He kissed her cheek.

“Then why didn’t you tell me at the time?”

“Because I thought it to be of no consequence then. Just as it is of no consequence now.”

She dipped her head.

“You see? Nothing to worry yourself over.”

She tensed. This was becoming too easy for him. “What about Alcmene?”

“I told you, it’s over.”

“Her sons— twins, Zeus…”

“It’s doubtful they are even mine. She slept with Amphitryon before the sun went down on the day I left her.”

“But their blood will be that much stronger if divine lineage is on  _ both _ sides.”

“No they won’t. They’d be mortal  _ hemitheoi _ at best. To amount to anything beyond their mortal years, they would need to drink ambrosia. And that won’t happen either.”

She nodded.

“Now,” he said, kissing her neck, “how can I make this up to you? How best should I apologize?”

She closed her eyes and leaned in. “Apologize?”

“Of course,” he said, his lips lingering on the juncture of her shoulder and neck. “I should have told you right away the thing I said to taunt Hades. Would you have been as distressed by what Persephone let slip if I had?”

“No,” she whispered back, feeling heat against her thigh through his himation and loincloth.

“You could have laughed her off, just as I do her husband.” Zeus teased his fingers along the small of her back and grazed his beard along her jaw.

“Amphitrite knew.”

“Amphitrite is a gossip.” He kissed her lips quickly. “And a hastily promoted nymph.” He kissed her earlobe. “And a shameless whore.”

Hera sucked in a breath as his tongue danced across the shell of her ear.

“And you are the queen.” He slipped a fibula free on her peplos, the fabric shifting and falling from her shoulder. He breathed against the skin he had freed. “You are  _ my _ queen.”

She touched his chest, gingerly, inhaling his scent of warm oak and petrichor, then stared up at him, blinking. He loved her eyes; she knew he did. It was why she emphasized them so heavily with kohl and malachite. She also knew that her paint would be smeared before the night was over, because he loved that too.

His head dipped and his tongue lashed against her nipple. Hera lost her footing, pressing up against him just as he squeezed her rump, catching her as she tottered. He slid the other pin away and her arms flew around his neck, then pushed his himation off his shoulder.

Why was she always so helpless against him? She knew the moment she walked through that door that it would end this way. It always did. Hera puzzled over that for a moment, then felt her girdle unclasp and slink down her falling skirts to the floor, its precious jewels and gold muffled by the pool of fabric at her feet. She bucked against his hand.

“Eager, are we?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Hera said before nipping his neck. She felt his large hand grip the back of her neck and pull her to face him.

“Oh, I will. I’ll push whatever I want,  _ gynaika mou _ .” He hitched up one of her legs and threaded his fingers through the folds of her vulva, fingers on either side of her bud, and Hera trembled and braced herself, knowing from before, from so many previous times just like this, what he would do next. Her skin prickled from the bottoms of her feet to the hairs on her neck. Then a current, setting off every vital nerve with relentless perfection. She arched her back, and the world around her disappeared as she came.

Tears leaked from her eyes and she cried out, feeling him close in on her, as he caressed her through the exquisite waves. His fingers settled there again. He had become so adept at this. Zeus used the very energy that coursed through the sky, the gift he’d received during the war, to turn her into a mewling pet. The same jolt sent her over the edge again, and again, wrenching her pleasure from her body until she quivered.

“Zeus, please… mercy…” Malachite trickled down her temples and into her loosened hair. His eyes darted across her face and neck, pleased and triumphant with the quivering mess he’d made of her.

“Is this not merciful enough?” He rubbed his engorged phallus against her thigh. “That you should be thrice satisfied…”

He traced circles with his finger, each pass producing another jolt, and kissed her. Zeus swallowed her plaintive cries as each wave built, crested, crashed, ebbed, rose again, and left her sobbing and pliant. Another rise and fall and she was breathless and shaking.

“…Or should I say  _ sixfold _ satisfied while you leave me painfully aching for you?” Zeus growled into her ear and ground against her thigh.

“Please… please…” The dry words stuck in her throat. She was delirious. Her head was craned back and she felt a soft pillow cushion her neck, replacing his hand. Her legs canted upward in anticipation, but she felt his hands on her hips and he turned her over so she lay prone. He pulled up her hips and with a single thrust, buried himself to the hilt. Hera sighed in relief. No matter how skilled he was with that lightning quick touch, it left her clenching around emptiness. He knew this. He would draw it out of her until she could stand no more, then fill her with hardness and heat.

Zeus gripped her hips so hard she thought they would bruise, crashing into her, and when she tried to lift herself up onto her elbows, his heavy palm in the center of her back pressed Hera  to the bed again. He leaned over her to keep her pinned to the sheets. 

“Why,” she said, catching her breath, “can you not love me like a good husband ought?”

“Because that’s not what you need.”

“What if I  _ wanted _ it?” She squealed as he circled his thumb around her anus.

“You hate it,” he growled. “You always have. This is what pleases you.”

“So you disrespect—” she lost her words, gasping as he pushed forward. He snapped his hips, stretching her, and she mewled his name, her eyes closing.

“You were saying?” He rasped into her ear. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and turned her head so he could kiss her. She bit at his lip to break their kiss and he removed his invading digit and pulled her upright, holding her taut against his body.

“You’re a brute,” she cried out through clenched teeth. He increased his tempo savagely and she leaned in to take him deeper, their voices blending together, animalistic.

Zeus raced toward climax, his cock thickening within her, then returned his fingers to the apex of her mound, ensuring that she would lose herself the moment that he did. Hera shook with dread and anticipation, and then in the throes of ecstasy as he came within her and orchestrated her bliss in time with his.

She felt her very self disappear— as though she had become an extension of his body. He shook with her, their breath falling into unison, and ever so slowly— gently, even— he released her, gently stroking her rump, then crashed down onto the sheets on his back. She fell forward, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears, the pillow already smeared with kohl and malachite from her eyelids. She wanted to slap him. He would only take it as an invitation for more if she did.

Every single time she sought him out, he did this to her. But she knew that he was right— that the proper way, the way that wives were supposed to be, supine, serene, and patient as they received the gift of their husband’s seed, wasn’t what she wanted. They had tried that, many times over their long lives, and it left her restless and irritated, and both of them dissatisfied. He took pleasure in her pleasure, and the more he gave, the more he took from her, was what left him sated… for a time.

Why could she not be a proper wife? Why did she always desire to make love to him like his whores surely did? Hera wondered for the thousand thousandth time if this was the reason why he constantly strayed— that she was impure, defective, that he sought out others because she couldn’t even abide by the example she was supposed to set for those who worshiped her. She rolled onto her side and sighed, her breath finally returning to normal. Zeus nestled in behind her. “Better?”

“I ought to shave off your beard while you sleep.”

“Mmhmm… Glad you enjoyed yourself,  _ gynaika mou _ .” He was already slumberous. “Rest with me for a bit, wife. You can stay the night if you wish.”

Hera didn’t respond except to tuck herself under his muscular arm and surrender to exhaustion.

* * * * * *

* * *

* * * * * *

She rose quietly by a sliver of moonlight, confident that Zeus wouldn’t wake up. After they lay together she rarely stayed. It was better for both of them. They weren’t newlyweds, and languishing in his arms would only mean inevitable heartache later. She was his queen, and above those childish wiles. Their love ran deeper than his affairs, and letting him pull at her heartstrings would only weaken her. She gathered her strewn clothes and pulled her peplos around her and, in a flash of iridescent peacock blue and green, journeyed through the ether back to her private chambers.

She felt so immodest every time she left his room wrapped in a peplos. But once alone in her room, she cast it to the floor and walked barefoot across the marble, feeling rejuvenated and free in her private sanctuary. Not even Iris was allowed in here.

Hestia was right. Hestia was  _ always _ right. Perhaps the way Persephone conducted herself with her husband  _ would _ set a good example for Zeus. Their relationship was strange… a perversion of the natural order, but it was certainly better than betrayal after betrayal followed by base lust and defilement. Persephone had left their gathering mirroring the same curtness that Hera had shown after she revealed the details of the Pomegranate Agreement and Zeus’s arrogant oath. Hera had been so angry she had barely said goodbye. 

It might do to make amends, and then to bring Persephone into her circle. Persephone was a queen; a new queen, one that still needed to be taught— wrought and shaped into a  _ true _ ruler. The Queen of the Underworld could be a powerful ally, especially with Elysion still new and largely unknown. She could use allies. And more still, a friend and equal. Hera could tell from Zeus’s reaction that Persephone would never be desired by her ever-wandering husband. What more, Persephone was clearly not one to be trifled with, even for one such as Zeus.

And there was that other matter to contend with.

Hera picked up the green fillet that had bound up her hair and stretched it out across the floor. Finding the center, she ripped the fabric into two pieces, equal in length, and held the torn pieces tightly in each hand.

With eyes shut, she breathed steadily, feeling the fabric thicken and writhe. The frayed strands flicked out in small forked tongues. When her eyes opened again, she released her hands from around the heads of two vipers, their scale patterns so reminiscent of the embroidery on her fillet. 

They stared up at her, waiting.

“Go to Thebes,” she whispered to them. “Find any son of Zeus that sprung from the desecration of Alcmene’s marriage bed. Send them to Hades quickly and mercifully.”

The vipers turned and gracefully slithered out of her room, down the slopes of Olympus, bound for Thebes and the infant twins Alcides and Iphicles.


	7. Chapter 6

“What I’m trying to say,” Demeter shouted after Persephone, “is that he’s behaved quite differently since Eumolpus died. Usually he’s here more often.” She quickened her pace and muttered under her breath. “Too often…”

Persephone strode paces ahead of her mother through the ripened field, saying nothing. The autumn sundown winds whipped past them, rising off the sea and threatening rain.

Demeter would rather be speaking about anything else. Any talk  about Hades rankled Persephone, no matter how innocent Demeter’s intentions. Sometimes it seemed as if her daughter was searching for any reason to find fault with her. She only wanted her to be happy, even if it meant happiness with the Lord of the Dead. 

“You should at least ask him if he even looked into that matter about Orpheus.” 

“Before we created Elysion…” Persephone spun about. “We opened ourselves to each other, completely. We can each tell if the other is holding something back.”

Demeter rolled her eyes. 

“What?”

“Yes, I know. That’s what the  _ hieros gamos _ does, for fatessake. You think that Zeus and I didn’t share that same sacred connection? That you’re the only one who’s ever felt what you feel?” She worried for Persephone. Her marriage was new, less than a century old, and she acted as if she and Hades had been together as long as Gaia and Ouranos. 

“He’s not lying to me if he doesn’t tell me everything right away. Fates help me if we described every detail of our separate lives. We’d have time for little else.”

“This isn’t a meaningless detail, Persephone. Not after that… adventure you had in Alikarnassos at that  _ harlot’s _ suggestion—”

“Aphrodite is allowed to be wrong, sometimes. And stop calling her that.”

“Of all the Olympians you could have befriended— and you shouldn’t be companions of  _ any _ of them, by the way— it still baffles me why she holds such a thrall over you.”

“Because she is kind to me.”

“Oh, kindness indeed…”

“Isn’t that what  _ you _ taught me to value?”

“When it’s served on the back of hidden demands, it is hardly kindness. Besides, if that is how you measure your relationships with them, why do you shrink from meeting with Hera again?”

“I’m not talking about this with you again. If you’d been there, you’d agree with me. Hera and Amphitrite were lobbing me back and forth like an  _ episkyros _ ball. It was disgusting! And Hera didn’t seem very pleased with my company by the time I left. She turned… cold.”

“And yet she’s summoned for you to return. Twice.” Demeter bristled. How she had been reduced to making a case for that horrible cow of a sister was beyond her. Nevermind that she had just been pleading for Persephone to seek out and speak with Hades! If the Demeter of a mere century past had been listening to her speak, she would think she was completely mad.

“I’m not going back.”

“A wise decision.”

“And not on your advice! I have nothing to say to anyone there.”

“Except that Eastern whore.”

“Enough, mother,” Persephone said, drawing an asphodel up from the earth.

“Instead of letting her talk you into visiting any of her barbaric fertility cults, maybe you should summon your courage and demand Aidon—”

“I said enough!”

Demeter stumbled back as a great ring of fire swirled behind her daughter. Persephone stepped through and was gone. Demeter stood in her wake, a tangle of brambles and blackberries snagging and staining the edges of her skirts. She shook her head. “So dramatic…”

She walked slowly back to the Telesterion, her head held high, refusing to draw any more attention from the mortals. She knew that her daughter had been disappearing to secretive places over the years, and though Persephone swore up and down and even upon the Styx that she’d never done it, Demeter knew in her bones that she would slip away to her husband’s chambers in the Underworld. Persephone could do it. Apart from all the gods, her daughter could visit any realm whenever it pleased her. Demeter knew she wouldn’t be  so rash in the middle of the harvest, though. She would be back at Hades’s side within days, anyway. Persephone had doubtless retreated to the inner sanctuary of the Plutonion, already piling up with pomegranates, dates, and olive oil. 

_ Fine _ , she thought.  _ Let her sulk in her cult’s shrine _ . It did nothing to change the facts. Aidoneus was being furtive. He usually came to Eleusis before harvest to see her daughter, and on the rare occasions that he had stayed long enough to run into Demeter he had been curt but cordial, and had enough respect for her to carry out any… marital relations… away from the Telesterion. She still choked on bile at the very idea.

Keryx stood at the gate, his grayed head bowed as he swung the doors of the Telesterion wide for Demeter to enter. She stopped. Something felt… off. She smelled irises and a vague undercurrent of sour milk. A woman cloaked in a fine weave of saffron colored linen stood at the foot of Metaneira and Celeus’s sepulcher. Mortal petitioners at Demeter’s altar across the room glanced this way and that, then quickly scurried away as Demeter stood by the door.

The woman turned, her eyes darkly lined, her lids dusted a bright turquoise. She pulled back her veil. “Good day to you, sister.”

***

* * *

 

***

“That color looks horrible on you.”

Demeter had turned all that was green and living to dust to regain her daughter. Her emotions had always run wild, and she couldn’t disguise the disgust in her voice. Other goddesses were more refined, Hera thought, able to master their feelings and summon them when appropriate. The distance Demeter had put between herself and Olympus was showing. She wasn’t who Hera had wished to see, but she would do for now. Besides, she rarely had the opportunity to catch Demeter Anesidora off guard. 

“I agree.” Hera smiled. A wave of blue swirled across her himation and overtook the yellow of her veil and peplos. “But it would have been vulgar to arrive with a train of peacocks in my wake, nay? When in Eleusis, do as the Eleusinians do, and all that. Even if that means covering myself in the colors of your glorified pasture grass…”

Demeter scowled, baring her teeth. “What in Tartarus are you doing here?”

The door burst open and Persephone padded through, her feet bare and caked with mud. “Mother, I need you to listen to—”

Persephone’s eyes grew wide and she swallowed. She bowed her head and curtsied. “Your grace.”

Hera smiled at her. “Oh come, this is your temple. If anyone should bow it is I.”

Persephone cocked an eyebrow. 

“I’m sorry for surprising you.” Hera walked to her, passing Demeter without a sideways glance. “Is there anywhere we can speak alone?”

“Don’t trouble yourselves on my account,” Demeter gritted out, then disappeared through parted rows of conjured wheat sheaves into the ether.

Hera was silent for a moment, then turned again to Persephone. “Oh, dear. I wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?”

“No,” Persephone huffed. “Nothing that can’t be sorted out later. If I might ask, though, what brings you to Eleusis?”

Hera demurred. Even though the girl before her was muddy almost up to her knees, and her hair was wind whipped like a mortal peasant, she still had all the bearing of a queen. Demeter’s influence could never spoil that. “I had not heard from you, even after sending Hermes with two seperate messages.”

“Apologies,” Persephone said. “From midsummer to harvest, I have little time to spare. Too much needs be done to ensure that the mortals survive winter.”

“Of course, of course.” Hera cast her eyes to the ground. “I only thought… perhaps you could have spared a minute for me.”

Persephone’s mouth opened, toyed with words, but no sound came out.

Hera raised her hand. “And then I thought, it was no wonder you didn’t want to visit me,  after how abominably I treated you on our first meeting.”

She gave Persephone a sidelong glance, one that always worked to great effect when she needed a favor from Zeus. The Goddess of Spring softened. “Your grace—”

“Hera.”

“Hera, I… don’t know what to say. The ways of Olympus are not my ways,  nor my husband’s ways. It wasn’t disappointment or hurt that kept me away, but realizing that I simply don’t belong in… that company.”

“Would it be too much for me to say that that is exactly why I need you? I went about it poorly. And I apologize. It would have been far better to meet with you alone instead of in a setting where Amphitrite is sure to bring out my worst.”

“But why do you need  _ me _ ? There are plenty of  goddesses in your retinue, you have countless allies and friends…”

“I have all the servants I could want. Endless sycophants. But none among them are my equal. No one I can speak with in confidence, and no one who would be willing to listen.”

She scowled. “I do not wish to be your pet, Hera. Nor do I believe that you would find anything I have— or do— to be of much interest.”

Hera hid her surprise, pulling her shoulders back. The girl was smarter than she—  and most others— gave her credit for. And in this world of men, she knew the dangers of that asset all too well. “On the contrary. There are things that I could learn from you. There is  _ much _ I could stand to learn from you, in truth.”

Persephone sighed. “I can’t imagine what. You have been  Queen of all the Gods for aeons—”

“Please. We both know how it goes here, in the world above,” said said, speaking lower. “We both know that I am  _ nothing _ , in truth, but for the fact that I am married to Zeus and bear his children. There is little else.”

“No,” Persephone replied, frowning. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Perhaps Amphitrite is right about me.”

“You two are different women. It was, I must admit,   _ uncomfortable _ watching that play out.”

“I thought about that, too. I fought so hard against her words because in my heart of hearts, I know she’s right. Perhaps I do have much to learn from you about reining in my husband.”

Persephone’s eyebrows rose. Hera thought for a moment that she had chosen the wrong words. Zeus was Persephone’s  _ father, _ after all. And she had displaced Persephone’s own mother in his heart.

The young goddess spoke. “If… you are hoping that… Aidoneus would somehow set an example for Zeus, then I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

Hera smiled. “I don’t expect to  _ ever _ keep Zeus from his… wanderings. The Fates never had that in store for us. But… I would at least like to reclaim some standing with him.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Please,” she said, kneeling down. She picked a stray peacock feather from the floor. “Please, Persephone. As it is, I sit three steps below Zeus. Amphitrite mocks me for it, cruelly, but rightly so.” She stood back up and wove the feather into her hair. “If  _ we _ are to change anything in this world, I now see that it must start with me, the Goddess of Marriage.”

Persephone tilted her head to the side and relaxed her stance, saying nothing.

“What you and your husband have done…” Hera looked around them, her palms upturned.

“This is my mother’s temple,” she said just above a whisper.

“Is it, though? No matter how she harries you or how tall her statues, the mortals come here for the new crop after the fallow. The promise of life after death. From you. And Hades. And the two of you, through your love and your realization of each other as  _ equal _ halves of one whole, have achieved something greater than any of us before or since who took part in a  _ hieros gamos _ . What you created changed the world as we know it. You made it better.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“But it has. You’ve given the mortals boundless hope. What is the number of offerings currently lying in the Plutonion?”

Persephone looked away, and fought to keep her hands at her sides. “Too many to count.”

“The mortal world deserves to be better than what it is. For men  _ and  _ for women. I would like to see that come to pass above, by the same example you and your husband set below.”

She could see the wheels turning in Persephone’s head. The young goddess stood a bit taller, and Hera could tell she was formulating plans of her own. “We should talk about this further. But I’m afraid my time this season has run its course. The autumn wheat harvest is tomorrow, and afterward—”

“Naturally.” Hera smiled graciously. “I won’t burden you. But when you leave Chthonia in the springtime, would you join me on Olympus when you are able, without Amphitrite, without servants or other wayward ears, and… perhaps then we can discuss this again.”


	8. Chapter 7

After her first disastrous homecoming, Persephone’s return to Aidoneus’s side was always a joyful yet sober affair. 

They would cloister themselves in their rooms, then hold a quiet feast in the main hall on the next full moon— their anniversary. Hecate joined them without exception, as did Hypnos and Thanatos, the twin gods of sleep and death. Their mother, Nyx, the Goddess of Night, would make an occasional appearance, as would Askalaphos and Menoetes. An assortment of  Erinyes and Stygian nymphs rounded out the feasting company. Charon was a rare sight in the hall, which made his arrival so surprising.

The doors opened loudly, silencing the idle chatter between Hypnos and Persephone. Askalaphos straightened, turning away from Nychtopula, who grasped his arm and peered around him. Aidoneus sat up on his divan, then stood in mild astonishment. Charon leaned on his oar as a staff, his thin frame even more frail against the backdrop of the great hall, then moved to kneel.

“No, no, please, Charon.” Aidoneus stretched out his arms. “Come in, friend; it’s good to see you.”

“And you, my king.” He turned to Persephone, “Aristi.”

Persephone smiled at him and returned a slight nod.

Charon swayed, the motions of the Styx still deep in his bones. “I have something for you. A gift, of sorts.”

“For me?” Persephone said.

Charon fought back a smile. “Beg pardon, Aristi, but this one I saved for your husband. It is a curiosity I found eight days past. Or rather, it found  _ me _ .”

Aidoneus glanced back at Persephone and shrugged. When he turned back, his eyes widened at the perfectly cut ruby Charon produced from the folds of his robes.

“It fell into my boat. Nearly hit a poor shade on the head.”

Hypnos immediately dropped his gaze and fought back laughter. Hecate pointedly brought her fingertips to her lips and exchanged a glance with Thanatos. The God of Death rested his chin on his folded hands, silver eyes boring into Aidon’s back. Persephone’s bewilderment was palpable.

“We have the whole earth above us, so pebbles and such fall all the time,” Charon explained. “But this stone was just… so finely cut…”

He turned it over in his hands, letting the light from the braziers shimmer through it. Thanatos cleared his throat, barely suppressing laughter. Aidoneus felt heat creeping up his neck and reddening his cheeks and ears.

_ He _ knew how that ruby had fallen into Charon’s possession.

Aidoneus would wait within the Plutonion for Persephone each fall, listening to her mother’s priests drone on as they prepared the masses for her departure and the barren winter ahead. His hand would reach out from the shadows, and take hers gently, not daring so much as a squeeze of affection in front of all of Eleusis. None knew it was him: he knew it would sully all of Persephone’s progress with the mortals if they knew that the feared Lord of the Dead stood in the shadows.

Once the door closed behind her, they would retreat through the caverns in silence. He would walk her to his chariot, hoist her up, and they’d be off, plunging through the scorching depths of the earth to emerge in the dark reaches of Erebus. Only then would he kiss her with all the uncaged fervor of six months spent without her in his bed. Normally, Aidon would stay away during harvest time, in part to let his wife work, but largely to avoid ever-present Demeter. By the time they were alone together it would have been at least two months since their last encounter. This year the wait had been  worsened by the fact that Aidon had forgone their usual midsummer visit.

“…and so auspicious,” Charon continued, “since this jewel fell into my boat on the very day our queen came back from the corporeal world…”

Aidoneus had been hasty with her. And she with him, he recalled, deepening his blush further. Her fingernails had gouged his neck and flanks in the dark as she had struggled to rid him of his himation and then his loincloth. His garments had fallen in a heap on the chariot’s podium. As he was wrapping the reins around one hand and tugging at her dress with the other, he’d grown impatient, and with a growl he yanked her jeweled girdle off her hips. The gold set stones jingled and clattered in the cart. Neither one noticed. By then, he was pressed deeply into her, a rhythm growing between them, his senses flooded by the warmth and scent and sound and taste of her surrounding him…

Afterward, in the waxing light of the Styx, she fished for her clothes and righted his, only to discover that a large ruby on her girdle missing from  its setting. Persephone fretted about the jewel as they alighted in the courtyard, but it was no matter to Aidoneus. He was the master of earth and all the precious things contained therein. Summoning a replacement would be easy. And so, amidst the following days of their private reunion, he had forgotten all about it.

Until now. And of all the damnable places for it to turn up…

“I thought to myself,” Charon smiled, “I could keep this, perhaps with all the coin I’ve received over the aeons, but no, that wouldn’t do…”

Hecate snickered.

“Such a marvelous trinket should be given to you, so you could gift it to your dear wife,” he said, holding it aloft before dropping it into Aidoneus’s open palm. “In front of all of your gathered friends, of course.”

One of Hypnos’s silver wings arched forward to shield his face. Tisiphone didn’t bother masking her harsh cackle, her body doubling over,  one hand on Persephone’s shoulder. Nychtopula whispered in Askalaphos’s ear and his eyes grew wide.

“Which one of them put you up to this, Charon?” Aidoneus asked, his lip twitching into a smile.

“I swear it wasn’t me.” Hypnos shook with laughter. “I swear it!”

Thanatos parted his hands and raised one finger. Aidoneus looked at him in surprise, and Persephone smiled, her cheeks rosy with a mix of embarrassment and laughter. Aidon returned to his seat and sheepishly handed over the ruby. They exchanged a quick kiss and the laughter ended in quiet applause.

Charon smiled. “Now all's right with the world.”

The Minister of Death would have been the obvious culprit a century ago, but Sisyphus had changed him forever. He was more somber, and Aidon had heard no complaints from Hecate, no boasts or rumors about him chasing after the Lampades—  or  _ any _ woman or man, for that matter. Aidon was relieved that this prank had been Thanatos’s idea. 

“Won’t you stay, Charon?”

“Perhaps. You know the first days of winter can be busy—”

“Oh, please,” Persephone said. “Anyone newly arrived can wait a mere hour. Come share the nectar that was sent to us.”

“Nectar.” Charon’s jaw tightened.

“Courtesy of Hera,” Aidon said.

“Do you recall the last time she sent us a…  _ gift _ ?” He looked pointedly at Aidoneus.

“It’s in good faith, Charon. Persephone got on well with Hera this summer, and this was delivered by Hermes earlier today for the anniversary,” Aidoneus sipped from his cup; he had quietly vowed to have only one. Everyone who had witnessed what happened that night was eager to lay the blame at Minthe’s, or Demeter’s, or even Hera’s feet— anyone but him. Aidon knew the truth: if he hadn’t downed that entire glass— and so many before it— he wouldn’t have been so gravely affected by the ergot. “It won’t alter your senses, I assure you.”

Charon’s shoulders dropped and he sighed. “It had better not. If I forget to collect a  _ single  _ obol tomorrow, I’m laying the blame squarely on you, Aidon.”

Hypnos poured him a glass and they carried on well into the evening, trading stories and tales from above and below. Orphne and Clymena had brought a  _ cithara _ and a tambourine, and with some encouragement from Tisiphone, Persephone rose and danced, showing them an  _ epilinios _ she had learned during Anthesteria on Crete. Aidon’s gaze was fixed on Persephone the whole time, relishing her ease and happiness at being home again. Her potent glance in his direction edged him closer toward dismissing their guests so he could have her to himself.

But he could also feel her many questions for him lingering. She knew that he was withholding something. And he needed to tell her.

******

* * *

******

Warmth suffused and enveloped her. Warmth from his hands wrapped around the small of her back, warmth from each gasping breath where she leaned against his shoulder, and warmth radiating from where they were joined. The gentle breeze around them, his scent of cypress, and the sheen of sweat on Persephone’s skin provided a cool counterpoint that made the after effects of her peak all the more sublime. Aidon pulled her down hard and threw his head back, his fingers digging into her hips, and a final burst of heat made her shiver.

He leaned back into the grass and pulled her with him, then uncrossed his legs. She released him and rolled away, awkwardly unfolding her limbs to fall in a heap at his side. They stared up at the stars of Elysion, breathing in time, their fingers lacing together.

“Happy anniversary.”

“Indeed.” She kissed him on the cheek. She lazily raised a finger and pointed from star to star, tracing the winter constellation of The Hunter. Decades ago, they had stopped wondering why the sky here in Elysion, their Paradise within Chthonia, was filled with stars, why the moon shone at night and the sun during the day. Instead they had decided to just enjoy this mystifying world.  “The stars look just like this above, right now.”

“Yes. I remember.”

She rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes trained on him.

He winced, then smiled at her. “You have questions for me. You’ve had them since we descended.”

“I wanted to wait before asking. I didn’t think they would be anything shocking. It was more in reaction to my mother hounding me just before the harvest.”

He tensed again. “I had seen to something early on in the season, and needed to think it over before I told you about it, sweet one. So rather than withhold, I avoided you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Can you tell me now?”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“You don’t have to worry, husband,” she said, smiling. She folded her arms under her chin, propping herself up on his chest. “It’s just me.”

“After Eumolpus died, I spent months contemplating what to do with what he told us about Orpheus, about having a child. But I didn’t want you to hurt again. Not after last time.”

She looked down. Aphrodite had suggested going to a temple far to the east, and they had participated in the fertility rites there. She had cloistered herself on the temple grounds, abdicating her responsibilities in the first grain harvest, heedless of the fact that it would mean a hard winter for the mortals. Persephone had rationalized that it was only one year, that she would never do it again. When her cycle was late by a week she was overjoyed, and told Aidoneus to come to her immediately. By the time he arrived, she was spotting, and though worried, she was told by the attending priestess that it could be a good sign. But the next evening Aidon had awoke to find her collapsed in a heap on the stone floor, sobbing, blood streaking her thighs.

Persephone let out a long sigh. “I understand.”

“I didn’t want to give you false hope, either. I wasn’t going to subject you to that if I found out that it would just be more pageantry and nonsense. But this…”

“You spoke with Orpheus?”

“Right before I saw you at the villa. I couldn’t tell you then. And decided that I couldn’t continue to lie by omission in your presence until you were back by my side and we’d spoken about it.”

“And that’s the only reason you didn’t visit at midsummer?”

He nodded.

Persephone laid her head in the crook of his arm. “What convinces you that this will be different?”

“Do you remember what Eumolpus told us? That Orpheus honored a god of rebirth that was not yet born?”

“I do. But every fertility cult from Iberia to the Euphrates honors some unborn or unknown god or goddess.”

“Which I why I did not appear to Orpheus directly, nor did I tell him who I was. Though I suspect he well knew by the time I left.”

“We’ve done this before… masking our identities, appearing mortal—”

“We have. But this is something else, sweet one. I asked— no, I  _ commanded _ him to name his professed god— the one yet to be born.”

She rose up and looked him in the eye, and he nodded. Persephone’s skin prickled and she leaned back on her haunches. 

“Zagreus.” Aidoneus sat up with her. “Zagreus, Persephone, the name we want to give our son. Had you ever told anyone besides me?”

“Only Hecate knows, but no one else. Not even Nyx or her sons. If I had ever spoken about my wishes to Eumolpus, I used  _ brimo _ , which means ‘the strong one’. And it’s an epithet given irrespective of sex.”

“Then how else could Orpheus have known?”

Persephone swallowed. What if this was just another stone thrown down another bottomless well? She couldn’t leave off her responsibilities ever again, and couldn’t endure a disappointment like the last one. “It might be coincidence.”

“Certainly. He could have heard the name somewhere else, though Zagreus isn’t any name the Thracians or Eleusinians would give a child. Maybe he divined it, though I know not how.” He looked off into the distance. “Or perhaps there’s something more sinister at play since he’s been sending mortals here with those gold scrolls, even though he seemed more earnest than anything else . Or…”

She was afraid to hope, but his half hearted excuses told her all she needed to know. He believed. Decades had passed since he dared to believe anything would come of their attempts, and yet here he sat, apprehension barely masking exuberance, waiting for her reply. She smiled and her eyes stung. “Yes.”

“Yes to what?”

“Let’s try.”

“I don’t want you to hurt again.”

“Wouldn’t it be worth it though? Wouldn’t all the years of past pain be worth this if it gave us our child?”

He let out a long sigh and leaned his forehead onto hers. “Yes.”

“What must we do? I cannot miss the planting or harvest again. Hundreds of mortals died when I stayed in Alikarnassos.”

“It  requires one day and one night, as the first shoots rise from the earth. No more.”

“What does the rite itself ask of us?”

“That was less clear.”

“Eumolpus said part of the sacrifice would be who we are… our most heartfelt desires.”

“Orpheus said the same thing, and would not say anymore. But he professes to abide by the will of the Fates. More so than most of the gods, even. I am confident we can leave this all to  _ ananke _ . No one will know that Hades and Persephone are attending among mortals. As far as they are concerned, we will be a mortal king and his queen.” He glanced out at the shallow sea beyond and cleared his throat. “There is one thing though that could become… a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The promise by which we will ensure his discretion.”


	9. Chapter 8

Wind battered the west wall of the temple and guttered the torches. The winter had been a stormy one, a hard start to the season. The Thracians had worried that there hadn’t been enough sacrifices to Zeus at the Spring of Midas, The Arcadians swore that Poseidon had whipped up the seas in anger, and the Athenians worried that they hadn’t sent enough propitiations to Eleusis for Demeter. 

But the summer had been kind to all. There were bountiful stores of grain— not just on Samothrace, but in every small village and great city in Hellas, Thrace, the islands and cities beyond. Orpheus stared out at the pool that dominated the center of the atrium. The oculus above and the slender clerestory windows had been sealed shut for winter, covered by tar-thatched reeds and battened down with hempen rope. It would keep the place warm for anyone seeking sanctuary. He reached the twelfth brazier and stoked it with an iron poker, the heat grown heavy beneath his woolen himation.

“Where did you hear the name Zagreus, hymnist?”

Every hair on his neck stood up. Orpheus stopped in his tracks and held his breath.

“Tell me.”

The hall was empty: the few who had sought shelter there during the day had found other places to stay for the evening. Though he was sweating in the temple’s close warmth, ice filled the pit of his stomach. He fell to his knees, his palms clammy against the stone floor, his eyes fixed on the ground. “It… i-is it you, God of Nysa?”

“After the first moon of winter, as promised,” the voice said. “Stand. There’s no need to kneel before me. It is I who come asking  _ you _ for favors. Now, who gave you that god’s name?”

Orpheus swallowed. “The name…”

The visitor grew silent. He was holding his breath.

“It came in a vision. Certain herbs…” Orpheus swallowed. “I had composed a hymn to the Moirai and the residents of the lands below, the night before I came here from Eleusis. There was a ritual at the temple on the night I arrived, and all within partook of a ceremonial draught. Its ingredients had been prepared for us by a nymph-born woman who lives in the forest. This order had consumed it before, for a generation at least, but that night I saw… visions of sigils and symbols and epithets, and when I slept that night, I dreamed. I dreamed of the Mnemosyne and the waters that restore life eternal and memory to those who go to Elysion. I dreamed of a god not yet born. I saw a babe crying out, coming into the world in a flash of flame and light. I heard his name, then. And in that moment I  _ knew _ that he would be the one to keep and protect Paradise itself through the ages, who would reveal its true purpose, one who could unite tribes and nations…”

There was a rustling, then the faint outlines of a very tall man with jet black hair. As he grew clearer, he lowered a polished gold helm to his side and stared down at Orpheus with eyes that had seen the rise and fall of civilizations. He spoke evenly, almost conversationally. “And in your vision the name this unborn god was given…”

“It was Zagreus. Zagreus Sabazios Eubouleus. As clear as if I were awake. And it was not only I who had that dream that night.”

“There are other mystics here?”

“I would never go so far as to call myself one.”

“If the mantle fits…”

“I merely listen. But yes, others that night heard that exact same name. Saw what I saw.”

The man— the god, rather— straightened. A faint smile teased the corner of his mouth. “Eubouleus. The Good Counselor. That epithet also belongs to another.”

“I know, my lord.”

“You know who I am, then.”

Orpheus paused. He knew it in his bones. He also knew that he risked being struck down if he was wrong. But he had trusted this god so far. Still he closed his eyes when he answered. “You are the Unseen One. The Receiver of Many.”

“You are permitted to use my name, Orpheus.”

“You’ll forgive me if I do not?”

The Unseen One nodded at him, then shifted and paced the room, glancing at the empty niches and the absence of any statuary of the gods. “I know your reasons. But in knowing why, you likewise understand why  _ no one _ must learn mine nor my wife’s true identity if this is to succeed.”

“I do.”

“Have you thought on my offer?”

“It is all I  _ have _ thought about these many months. Especially since time grows short.”

“What do you mean?”

“We hold these rites once every three years, on the third full moon after the first crocus blooms. This is the year.” 

“I want you to know this,” Aidoneus faced him and crossed the room to stand in front of Orpheus. “If you say ‘no’ to me, there will be  _ no _ repercussions for you or yours. I, Hades Aidoneus Chthonios, firstborn son of Kronos, swear it to you on the Styx. You will not have displeased me, you will not have displeased my wife, nor any other god or creature who dwells on or below the earth. And when you pass from this world and journey to mine, your choice here will have no bearing on the hereafter.”

“And what of the gods above?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “These aren’t their matters. They care nothing about this.”

“Why would you come to me— to a mortal, my lord— for something like this? We are such finite, small beings when compared to the Deathless Ones.”

“I am not an Olympian,  _ hemitheoi _ , and don’t hold myself on high above your kind. Those who oversee the earth, whose lives are intertwined with the mortals and their immortal souls, cannot afford such… vanities. Your kind have a wisdom that comes  _ from _ the knowledge that your lives are finite— one lifetime in which to accomplish what you can. That itself is a powerful thing. More than you, or the gods above truly realize.”

“But in Elysion we have a hope of remembering what we were,” Orpheus said, his voice growing earnest. “Of continuing on and growing and learning even after death, once we drink from the Mnemosyne.”

Aidoneus shook his head and sighed. “The words written on your scrolls, the ones you place in the mouths of the dead… are a fiction. A pleasant one, to be sure, but all who reside in my realm must drink from the Lethe. For their own sakes.”

“But…” Orpheus felt cold creep over him. The rites for the dead he’d performed for countless adherents… Were they all for nothing? “The visions I had, though, they said that you would let those who are worthy of Elysion drink from the Pool of Memory, that they—”

He shrugged. “I do not know whence those  _ visions _ came to you, but rest assured… Elysion is new, but the laws that govern Chthonia remain unchanged, as they have for aeons.”

“But the memories and lives of those who are reborn—”

“And with good reason.” 

The god had raised his voice. Even now, it faintly reverberated through the hall. Orpheus swallowed. His words came out thin and reedy. “I only know what I saw. As clearly as I saw the child you believe will come from this rite. If I were to say no, to say no to  _ you _ , why would you let me go so easily?”

“Because it is not your decision alone. It is  _ ananke. _ If a child is not meant to be made by these means, then I accept that. As does my wife.”

Orpheus let out a sigh, feeling a great weight lift from his shoulders. For all this time, he was convinced that he was being given an order by a god. “I’ll do it.”

“For the gift of a lyre?”

“No.” He paused then shook his head. “Partly. But more so because I know for certain I can trust you. And that my decision wasn’t compelled.”

Aidoneus smiled and folded his hands behind his back, then turned away from Orpheus, observing the walls of the stark temple. “My wife will be very pleased by this.”

Orpheus leaned against the column. The King of the Underworld’s voice had hitched. He was moved and didn’t want to show his emotions.

“The god revealed to you… Zagreus… that was the same name my wife and I had decided upon when we first knew we wanted to have a child of our own. We never told anyone. And this has given me reason to hope.”

He whispered. “My lord, I have hope as well, but… I can promise nothing.”

“Of course.”

“Our visions were clear, and all saw the same things come to pass. And we all saw that the Unborn One would come into this world from the womb of a mortal woman.”

“ _ Your _ visions also told you that mortals’ memories are restored in Elysion. When we dream, we see first what we know and believe. None in your order would imagine the rites being attended by gods.”

“No. Certainly not.”

“But only gods beget gods.” The Receiver of Many hesitated. “Orpheus, tell me… Eumolpus spoke of it before he passed, and you said the same this spring: that the sacrifice we’d make would be greater and unlike anything we could imagine… My wife and I have much to lose, so you can understand how that might give me pause.”

“It wouldn’t—” Orpheus shut his eyes momentarily, trying to find the right words. “It would not throw the spheres into chaos. A farmer’s crops would not wither any more than a king would lose his crown or a priest be cast out of his temple.  That much I know. It would be something personal. Not a sacrifice for the Lord of the Underworld, but a sacrifice for… Aidoneus.” Orpheus shuddered involuntarily, and his gaze fell to the floor.

“You can’t be any more specific?”

“I am sorry, my lord. I cannot,” Orpheus said. “It is not known by me, nor would it present itself immediately. The sacrifice unfolds in time. It is in the hands of the Fates alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter debuts in two weeks! And it will feature pretty much all your most loved characters and a couple you've never seen before.


	10. Chapter 9

He knew better than to speak with them before the first full moon of winter. He had only to recall his first visit to remind himself why. Even if a message from Olympus meant for Hades were urgent, he would always beg it off for at least a week.

Hermes sat in Charon’s boat, tapping his foot on the bracing, smoothing the golden feathers of his winged sandals, and trying to avoid eye contact with the dark cloaked shade of an old woman who sat opposite him.

“My husband sacrificed a ram to you,” she said suddenly.

Hermes started, then remembered that she hadn’t yet drunk from the Lethe. Though a shade, she wasn’t yet part of Asphodel. He could hear her. She was scowling at him. “What, to me?”

“He wanted to sell sheep across the water, to the Thracians. I told him not to go into business, but no… did Stavros listen to me? No!”

“What happened?”

“You don’t know?!”

“Uh…”

“The fool, I knew it! I told Stavros you wouldn’t listen to his prayers! ‘I know sheep, not trade, Agathe, but  _ trust the gods _ , because I gave Hermes a  _ whole ram _ , Agathe!’ Foolish pious man he was…”

“That’s enough,” Charon hissed.

The shade cowered and fell silent, but pursed her lips and glowered at Hermes until the boat scraped against the opposite shore.

“Welcome home,” Charon said to her and pointed his oar beyond the ghostly reeds at the poplar shaded stone pathway. “The Trivium is that way. Go to the spring beside it and wait. You are to be judged by Rhadamanthys.”

The woman gathered up her skirts and plodded along the path, disappearing from view. Charon pushed off and shook his head. Hermes shrugged. “What?”

“With all your infamous wiles and trickery,” the Boatman said, “could you have at least  _ lied _ to her?”

“And tell her what?!”

“Nothing comes to you? There was a bad star, a storm of the ages, or the evil eye struck, or any one of the  _ many _ Olympian excuses. Or even that  _ yes _ , you’d listened, but no, there was nothing that could have been done.”

“There are too many offerings… how could I have known their circumstances?”

“ _ You _ guide the wayward dead back here. Speak to them and find out. Or lie vaguely, if you prefer. It comes to you easily enough.” 

Hermes scowled and slouched back, crossing his legs. The palace gates came into view at the end of a short path bordered with tall stalks of asphodel. Charon stilled his boat and Hermes debated whether or not to have the last word.

“What is your purpose here, Psychopompos?”

“Your King summoned me today. And since I was on the way, I also bear a message from our Queen to yours.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s a  _ good _ thing that Hera wants to befriend her. Good for everyone. Persephone is the  _ only _ child of Zeus she’s ever been kind to, so can you please,  _ please _ do your part to not ruin it?”

The Boatman didn’t reply.

“Not for me, but for her.” Hermes leapt into the air, thankful to be on the other side of the Styx. Ever since the fateful day he had appeared before Hades and Persephone at the command of Zeus to return her to Demeter, he had carefully abided by Persephone’s edict that he not cross the Styx except by Charon’s boat. It was ploddingly slow, made worse by the shades that often made the journey alongside him, and worse still by the unpredictability of Charon’s temperament— he never knew whether Charon would be gratingly dour, or spend the entire trip needling him.

The air was dank and chill, but he could feel the spray from the falls beside the palace on his face and it was refreshing after the stifling stillness of the Styx. He raced upward, torchlight guiding him to the throne room. He could hear Persephone’s voice inside.

“…on the full moon exactly between the first of Spring and the Solstice.”

“The seeds have already burst and reached into the soil by that season. Petals have fallen and the fruits have begun to pull on the branch. The weave of this is strange—” 

Hecate whipped around as Hermes alighted on the balcony. He stumbled back. 

“Oh it’s… you… It’s almost the— I suppose it’s the last quarter moon, isn’t it?”

Persephone made her way back to her throne and sat down, folding her hands in her lap as Hecate shuffled closer to the Messenger, toying with him.

She extended a bony finger. “The long-toothed wolf makes the pup yelp, eh?”

“There are old gods above, too. But they’re ageless, and, well, you are too, but… I normally see you when you’re…”

“When I look to have more pounce than prowl?”

“Well, yes.”

“Cross the still waters more, whelp, and the boatman’s call might lead you to a wiser world. But if the withered wolf makes your tail tuck away, I mark that the pawns of Olympus have no heart for the splendor and shades of Chthonia.”

Persephone sat up. “What brings you here, Hermes?”

Hecate slid into the shadows, the crows feet around her eyes deepening as Hermes picked at a fingernail. He bowed to one knee and held a scroll aloft. “A letter. From the Queen of Heaven.”

Persephone stood and extended her hand. Hermes stepped onto the dias and handed her the papyrus, the seal marked with the eye of a peacock feather. She broke it and started unrolling the scroll, then stopped. Hermes stood waiting. “My husband summoned you, no? He’s below, in the courtyard.”

Hermes shifted. “Oh. Yes.”

_ No wayward gossip for you,  _ Persephone thought. When Hermes was out of sight she walked to the desk and unfurled the missive.

Hecate hobbled closer. “Queen of Heaven, says the nipper at heels. A crown of twigs that lays claim to the forest of the cosmos…”

“Likely not self applied.”

“We can hope that the crow but wears the peacock’s feathers. What says the consort of the sky god?”

Persephone scanned the words. They weren’t in Greek, or Theoi, but in the hieroglyphs of far off Aegyptus. She wrinkled her brow. What reason did Hera have to encrypt a letter? Persephone had only learned that language a quarter century ago, and had yet to master the spoken tongue. 

_ My dear sister Queen, _

_ I hope this finds you well. Your absence has produced a dreadful series of storms that has blanketed Thessaly in a lovely frost, but lost several ships near Crete, or so Poseidon tells me.  _

_ No matter. I look forward to your return and what we spoke of before your departure. Every passing day with my husband and his infernal sons convinces me that your ways below the earth should be reflected above. I don’t want to speak of this on Olympus. There are too many eyes and ears here. Perhaps in your realm, if you would be so kind. I know you have much faith in your people. _

_ I cannot leave now. There are matters I need to see through. And you are often busy in the Spring, but perhaps Summer might be a better season for us to visit Elysion together.  _

_ Please write soon.  _

_ All regards, _

_ H. _

“The serpent asks the sparrow to nest on the ground,” Hecate rasped. 

“Why do you say that?”

“She knows well that the Pact of the Pomegranate binds you to the fields when the sun soars highest, yet asks you to walk with her into these sunless halls while the fruits grow above.”

“I’m sure it’s completely innocent. When I spoke of the Agreement with her and Amphitrite, it seemed she hardly knew anything about it.”

Hecate thinned her lips. “The serpent smiling through a cloak of blue feathers is still a serpent.”

“I don’t trust her either, but she is trying to befriend me, and the last thing we need is to make an enemy of her. Besides,” Persephone said, reaching for a stylus. “If she is sincere, we could affect meaningful change in the world above. Wouldn’t you prefer that to mortal women being treated as little more than chattel, or your followers being stoned or exiled?”

Hecate clenched her jaw.

“She is clearly scared and alone.” Persephone held up the scroll.

“Serpent or worm, wolf or lapdog— be certain you know which beast you see. The Queen wore a thousand masks before you first saw your own reflection.”

“I’ll be cautious. But I’m not going to raise a wall between her and me.” She rolled the scroll until Hera’s words disappeared. She whittled the end of her papyrus reed to a sharp point and dipped it in the ink.

“What words will you send to the mountaintop?”

“The truth. That I’ve never returned to Chthonia in the spring or summer, in accordance with the Pomegranate Agreement, and I don’t ever intend to do so.”

***

“ _ Hold _ ,” Aidoneus said in the dream tribesman’s language. He stepped back and dug the pommel of his sword into his palm to stretch his tendons and relax his grip. As he clenched and unclenched his fingers around it, Aidon watched the deep wound on his forearm knit back together then disappear entirely.

Icelos Phobetor, chieftain of the Oneiroi, waited. His shape drifted from shimmer to shadow as he lowered his dagger and spear.

Aidon wiped the sweat off his brow. “You may enter, Psychopompos.”

Hermes dropped to a knee knelt at the entrance to the courtyard. When he stood, he looked up at Aidon, but his eyes were drawn to Icelos. Twice as tall as him, the shifting mass kept a roughly human figure, massive weapons suspended within hazy fists, cloudy muscles rippling. The color drained from Hermes’s face. “What… who…”

“He doesn’t speak Theoi. Don’t bother,” Aidoneus said, replacing his helm.

“What are you doing?”

“Practicing.”

“What for?!”

Aidoneus glowered at him through the eye slits. “Chthonia stands between your world as its former masters. Should the Titans ever escape Tartarus, I need to be ready. Stay where you are, Hermes.” He looked up at Icelos and spoke in the hollow tongue of the dreamworld. “ _ Last time. Advance. _ ”

Hermes winced, first at the unfamiliar words, then the clash of bronze. “It’s been forty thousand years, Aidoneus—”

“And if you want another forty thousand,” he said, grasping the spear to pull Icelos toward him and thrusting harmlessly into his immaterial form with a riposte, “I cannot afford to rest on my laurels.”

Icelos jerked his spear back and Aidoneus dodged aside. The heavy spearhead slid by him, a hair's width from his shoulder, and struck the cobblestones with a clang. His helm vanished and swallowed the rest of his armored form, and he silently rolled backwards. Icelos lunged and hacked at the ground around him with his knife, hitting nothing but stone. Hades waited. He trod silently, then leapt forward. Arm cocked, he reappeared and cleaved Icelos’s spear in half with a hard blow, then stood. “ _ That’s enough for today. Thank you for your time, friend. _ ”

Icelos silently bowed and vanished, taking the broken spear with him.

He inspected the nicked edge of his sword, then sheathed it, leaning the scabbard against the wall. He’d hone it later. Aidon removed his helm and sent it away through the ether. Hermes was shifting from foot to foot, agitated since the first clash of bronze. He was always on edge whenever Aidon wore his armor. They’d taken away his wife for half of each year, and each year passed quietly. Did the Messenger still fear that he would make war on Olympus? 

_ Let them worry on that _ , Aidoneus thought,  _ so they don’t think they can take anything else. _ Still, he couldn’t tolerate Hermes’s fidgeting. His armor melted and rippled into the more familiar shape of his black tunic and himation as they walked toward the courtyard gate.

“Your wife sent me to see you here. I was willing to wait in the throne room.”

“Given that you read her missives earlier this year, I don’t blame her for dismissing you. I have a task for you,” he said. “Come with me.”

Aidoneus walked quickly toward the grotto and the pool beyond. “Wait outside.”

Aidoneus knew Hermes wouldn’t move an inch into the room until he was under the water. The Messenger had seen enough for one lifetime when he’d barged in on him and Persephone.

Aidon removed his sandals, his himation and tunic, then his loincloth, and left them in a crisply folded pile on the divan. He pulled his hair free of the torc and dove head first into the water. He swam to the bottom, coming to rest cross legged. The rush, the darkness, the utter silence of the water was welcoming. A respite. Aidoneus opened his eyes with only black stillness to greet him. It was warmer at the bottom and he let the heat seep into his flesh and bones. He’d begun sparring with Icelos early in the morning, and should have gone most of the day. He hadn’t expected Hermes so soon, and his request of the Messenger would not be an easy one. Aidoneus knew that just one misplaced word or distracted thought would beget a torrent of gossip among the gods, and cause him and Persephone, and likely Demeter, endless problems. He rolled his neck, then slowly surfaced, his shoulders breaking the dark water. With a flick of his wrist, he lit the room, the torches illuminating the sapphire and diamond inlaid ceiling above. “You may enter.” 

Hermes poked his head in the door and scanned the dim room, empty but for Aidoneus chest deep in dark water. He waited for Hermes to take stock of the room, then spoke.

“Who on Olympus would have a silver lyre?”

Hermes raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“It is a gift for a mortal.” The boy’s eyes widened and Aidon could see the wheels turning in his head. “It is not so grand a favor, Hermes. I allowed a mortal to use _my own_ _helm_ once.”

“Yes, but the Stygian nymphs were the ones who  _ actually _ handed it to Perseus.”

Hades rolled his eyes, despite himself. “Of course they did. What living mortal in their right mind would cross the Styx, enter this palace, and meet face to face with the Lord of the Underworld to ask of him a favor?” Aidon slowed his tread under the water until only his head bobbed above the surface. Warm water crept up his neck, soothing him. “It’s beside the point. And before you ask, my reasons for this are my own.”

“I didn’t ask. I know you better than that.”

“You created the first lyre, no?”

“I did. But I traded it almost as soon as I made it.”

“For what?”

“A herd of cattle.”

Aidoneus stared at him, water dripping down his scalp.

“It was a joke. It’s a long story.”

“There must be more than one silver lyre on Olympus. Which of the Muses would have one? Calliope? Erato?”

“They do, but not the kind you’re looking for. The only silver lyre is Apollo’s.”

He exhaled and disappeared under the surface for a long moment then came back up. “Of all the gods to which you could have given it…”

“He doesn’t use that particular one often, but he  _ does _ treasure it above all others. If I told you what Euterpe had to do just so she could touch—”

“I don’t want to know,” he said. “Turn, would you?”

Hermes complied, facing the wall. “Who is the lyre for?”

Aidoneus hoisted himself up out of the water and shook out his hair, then stood and wrapped his himation around his waist. “A hymnist named Orpheus, who lives on Samo—”

“Him?!” Hermes spun back around. “The one you said has been putting the gold scrolls in the mouths of the dead?”

“The same,” he answered, throwing the long end of the dark cloth loosely over his shoulder, careless of how it lay. It wouldn’t be on for long. Persephone was meeting him upstairs after this business was over.

“And here I’d guessed you’d ask Zeus for his  _ life _ for that. Not grant him a gift!” Hermes rolled his tongue on the inside of his cheek. “Wait; isn’t he Apollo’s  _ son _ ?”

“He is.”

Hermes laughed. “My lord, forgive me, but I thought you had an actual  _ task _ for me. ‘Excuse me, Apollo, I need to borrow that magical lyre of yours and give it to your musically and poetically gifted son who composes hymns about  _ you _ . You can have it back in thirty years or so when he’s dead.’  _ That _ is what you want?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure you can’t tell me wh—”

“No,” he said firmly. “All I need is discretion. Especially if you are going to Apollo. I don’t want him to know that it was at my behest.”

“He takes no issue with you.”

“You told me yourself that he is still… resentful… of how Aphrodite publicly humiliated him on Persephone’s behalf. It’s doubtful he would forgive that any time soon.”

Hermes nodded. “If anything he detests Aphrodite for it, not Persephone. Aphrodite and I— well, he has no quarrel with me, you know, and she and I… are…”

Aidon closed his eyes and massaged his temples with his fingertips. His voice dipped in register. “Is that why Ares has been making an absolute mess of Argolis for the past month?”

Hermes winced. “Possibly?”

“Your affair with her has created a season of headaches for us down here. It’s not just soldiers we’ve received. The city was ransacked. Women, Hermes.  _ Children _ .”

“Take it up with Ares. I didn’t tell him to start a war.”

He sat down on the divan. It was always someone else’s fault with the Olympians. Any time he had asked after the causes of mortal suffering he’d been met with a chain of pointing fingers. It wasn’t even worth it to lecture the boy.

“It won’t be difficult, I promise. Apollo is my friend.”

“Just make sure.”

The Messenger paused for a moment and tilted his head, suspicious. “You’ve never, and I mean  _ never _ engaged in intrigue, my lord. Why this?”

He tilted his head up and stared Hermes in the eye. “It has nothing to do with Olympus. I swear that to you on the Styx, Hermes. It concerns our own matters in Chthonia, only. And you’ll know the answer soon enough, if our efforts are successful.”

“Our?”

_ Damnation!  _ Aidon could have kicked himself. The crack in the levy was already there. Best repair it before Hermes made any suppositions. “I want my wife’s name kept out of this, Psychopompos.”

Hermes stared at him, and Aidon knew that he was trying to divine the reason. The Trickster was wise with emotions. He could see around the slightest bluff, the quickest lie. Hermes relaxed. “Think nothing of it, Aidoneus. I’ll do it.”

“You have my gratitude.”

“Any messages for Zeus?”

“No. Likewise, I take it?”

Hermes shook his head.

“You may go. Charon will be along shortly.”

“Aidon… since I’m doing you this favor, is there any way you could reverse the decree and I could just…  _ come and go _ the way I  _ used _ to?”

“That decision is for the Queen alone,” Aidoneus said, smiling dryly.

Hermes opened his mouth to say something, then deflated. He bowed quickly and disappeared through the doorway. 

“He will be as true as any whelp to a good master. ”

Aidoneus turned to see Hecate, standing on the surface of the pool, her aged reflection perfectly mirroring her in the still water.

“The pup’s yapping is not the sole storm in my mind. You are not only swimming against the river, you try to force it from its banks. These are not your ways. Or mine.”

“Have  _ our _ ways given my wife a child?”

Hecate slowly walked toward the deck, the water undisturbed, then padded soundlessly across the limestone. “The words of the Fates—”

“Contradict themselves.  _ You _ tell me that. They told  _ me _ that Persephone and I would be as fruitful as the land of the dead, and they told  _ her _ we would have three children. So it is up to us, then. Just as it was  _ our _ ordained actions that created Elysion.”

“The river forks ahead, Aidon. It spreads before the sea beyond. And too many tributaries flow into a whirlpool. Lives will be churned. Swallowed. I see agony. Suffering.”

“If I do not go to Samothrace, then we suffer the fate of never knowing if this was our one chance. I’m not about to let it slip through our fingers.”

“And so you sail with your queen. What of the other ships that sail alongside you?”

“It’s a fertility rite. Suppose the mortals have a poor harvest, as they did after our last efforts… Persephone and I can set it to rights before the first chill of winter. We would have months to do so.”

Hecate’s face fell. “The passing parts of seasons concern me little, Aidoneus. It is winters counted together as mere moments. It is the ripple that builds until it sends all ships to the deep.”

“I have faith in  _ ananke _ , Hecate. I’m not abandoning what you taught me, or you, or what I believe. And the hymnist himself follows our ways. I feel, in my soul, that this is right. More so than anything we’ve tried before.”

She nodded, but her lips pursed as she looked up at him. “If this is your course, and if you sail with clear eyes and strong heart, who am I to stop you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thank you so much for reading the free preview of The Good Counselor. For release dates, please visit my website.


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